


A Requiem to Peace-Parted Souls

by chivalryandgreentea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Blood and Injury, Brick parallels, Found Family, French Resistance, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Historical, Hopeful Ending, Hospitalization, Loss, Medical Procedures, Nazis, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sacrifice, Timeline Alternating, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chivalryandgreentea/pseuds/chivalryandgreentea
Summary: "Did it help you?" Enjolras asked, his eyes suddenly intense. Joly felt uncomfortably exposed under that stare, which seemed to see through all of his pretenses and to a truth which he didn't think he knew himself."I haven't had anyone to talk to," Joly said, trying not to let it get to him."I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours."*After the war ended in 1945, Joly decided to keep those years in the past and dedicated himself to his new duties at the hospital. But when a former resistance leader with nothing but the name "Apollo" to go by is placed under his care, Joly is tasked with learning about his past and those of the people depicted in a certain cynic's sketchbook.**DISCONTINUED INDEFINITELY**
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean, Enjolras & Joly (Les Misérables), Enjolras & Les Amis de l'ABC, Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship, Triumvirate friendship - Relationship
Comments: 54
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how they say "write for yourself"? that's...exactly what this fic is because I've been dying to see a WW2 Les Amis friendship fic for ages. Not sure how many other people feel the same...?
> 
> The title's based off of a line from "Hamlet". Additional warnings for this fic: Nazi violence, mentions of torture and physical abuse. (I'll add more warnings if I missed any for future chapters).

" _Excusez-moi_ , Monsieur Joly, Dr. Dupard wants to speak with you."

Joly found himself startled from his reverie over a file of medical reports as he looked up at Sister Simplice, the soft-spoken nurse at Hôpital Lariboisière.

"Thanks, Sister. Did he say what about?" He asked, slightly embarrassed by his unpreparedness. Was he in trouble? He didn't remember the last time he'd been called in by Dr. Dupard; not since he'd first arrived at the hospital for duty a few months ago.

"Sorry, Monsieur, he didn't." The gentle nun offered a tight smile as she made a gesture with her head to follow her. Joly nodded and began to take after her, hobbling a little on his bad leg and missing his old cane for support. But, doctor's orders...it was time he started walking without it. They wound their way through the maze of dozens of beds crammed into the military hospital hall, which was never quite large enough to comfortably host the countless people who ended up there. The air was hot and heavy with what must have been dozens of bodies packed closely together, and the putrid smell of infection hung thick. As they walked past harried doctors and nurses leaning over bleeding patients, Joly almost had to pinch himself to remind himself that yes, he really was here. Here to help, here to forget.

Sister Simplice snapped him back to the present as she cleared her throat, finding him lagging behind. Joly was still so new to this place; it wouldn't be the first time he had gotten lost in the endless halls or crowded rooms. Sister Simplice stopped in front of a bed crowded by another nurse and the head doctor, Dr. Dupard himself.

Sister Simplice gave Joly an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder as she hurried back to her other patients. Joly cleared his throat, anxious to get whatever he had been called in for over with. He still had his own patients to see and duties to fulfill, and he was beginning to feel the toll of working all day, every day.

"Ah, Joly," Dr. Dupard murmured as he turned round, meeting Joly's eyes. He was a short, wiry man, with a balding head and thick tortoiseshell spectacles. "We have much to discuss. I'm assigning you to the care of a new patient, who will need a great deal of your attention—it's really of the utmost importance." A secretive grin blossomed on the elder doctor's face. " _National_ importance."

Joly's interest was piqued, and he pushed his hopes of a restful night away immediately. He'd just finished his basic medical studies a few months ago, and already he was being given a serious case? He'd spent most of his time here so far assisting the experienced doctors and nurses, or doing the less savory tasks usually left for the younger doctors.

"If you haven't heard, some of our men taken as POWs in Germany have been transferred as of yesterday from Reims. One is a Resistance leader. He's spent the last year in Nazi torture cells."

Joly stared at Dr. Dupard in amazement. "He's still alive? But I haven't heard of Germans leaving survivors when they torture..."

"I know," Dr. Dupard interrupted, his own brow furrowing. "That's what I want to know. What's different about this man? I know there has to be something…"

"What's his name?"

"We don't have a clue. No identification papers, though if he did, they'd probably be fakes. He won't tell us anything, and we have to drug him to keep him from attacking everybody; he's _wild_ when he's awake. But he had this book with him—" Dr. Dupard pulled a leather-bound journal cracked with dried mud and blood from inside of his jacket, handing it to Joly.

It was a sketchbook. The subjects of the drawings were mostly men, talking, sitting, lounging—with little names written underneath. Dr. Dupard indicated a page to Joly, and he found himself staring at a remarkably handsome young man with golden curls, pink lips marred with an odd look of cold passion, and brilliant blue eyes. The image was familiar, too familiar, and Joly had to quickly block that part of his brain before the memories overwhelmed him again.

This young man appeared to be the subject of most of the artist's drawings. Where a name should have been, there was one word: _Apollo_.

"That's our man there, this 'Apollo'. A bit hard to believe it's him now. You alright, Joly?"

Joly nodded, swallowing hard. His bad leg suddenly throbbed, and he winced as he rubbed the aching war wound.

"Do you recognize them? You fought, right? Any familiar faces?"

Joly shook his head, fighting off the voices in the back of his mind demanding to be heard—

"Anyway. Some of our officers have already recognized most of these men here—all were with the Resistance. We want this man's story in full—apparently he might have important information for us, information he was trying to deliver before he was captured." Dr. Dupard eyed Joly carefully, as though assessing him. "You're young, Joly, but you're smart and likable; be a friend to him, make him trust you. What we want to know is this: is he a hero in this story, or a villain?"

Dr. Dupard's words had a lingering quality of mystery to them, and for a moment he and Joly stood in solemn silence. Then, Dr. Dupard broke the heaviness with a bright and assuring smile.

"Don't take yourself too seriously, Joly. Do the best you can. Remember, I'm putting my faith in you, boy."

Joly laughed nervously at that last sentence, watching him go. The nurse who'd been waiting for him - Sister Perpetue, was her name - cleared her throat, gesturing with her hand the bed over which Dr. Dupard had been standing. Joly tried to calm his breathing, his curiosity rising as he carefully approached the bed, allowing himself to get a full view of the man lying in it.

His right hand was covered in dried blood with several fingernails missing, and that wrist was bound to the metal rail on the side of the bed. As he was naked from the waist up, Joly saw long, deep cuts becoming discolored with pus along his ribcage, which jutted out too prominently against his concerningly pale skin. He was clean enough, Joly decided, so whatever effort the nurses had made to clean him up hadn't been totally in vain. Blood was smeared on his face as though he'd been scratching himself to draw blood. His face was a colorful palette of blues, greens, and purples, and those blue eyes, which had been dazzling in that drawing, were closed. What called attention the most, however, was a long, thin cut, stretching from his hairline, just barely missing his eye, and ending at his chin, marring those formerly idealistic pink lips.

Joly moved so that he was by the man's side, and carefully pressed his fingers to his wrist to feel his pulse. For a man who was sleeping, it was far too irregular and quick.

"What's he got?" Joly asked the nurse.

"Gangrene in that right hand - it's been just _swell_ trying to keep him from scratching at it. The doctors wanted to wait a little while before suturing those cuts on his ribs - they did a lousy job at it in Reims. Thankfully no fever, almost all of his ribs broken, dislocated shoulder—we fixed that up with plenty of trouble from him. The doctors say there's something wrong with his head, though I'll bet torture does that to you. Malnourishment, the usual. He looks like an anxious sleeper too. And mind you," Sister Perpetue said, lowering her voice, "this is after he was treated in Reims. I can only imagine what his condition was like before. A shame - looks like he was pretty keen in his day."

Joly nodded as Sister Perpetue went into specifics and listed his medications, leaving an additional note on his report before she left. Joly stood listening to the ragged breathing of this man, this Apollo, watching the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, his discolored body. Even in sleep he seemed to find no peace. Joly leaned close, observing his face, trying to find some connection between him and the Apollo in the drawing. He stood close now, only a few inches away from his face. Joly began to straighten up to check on his other patients, convinced that this man would sleep a while longer, when suddenly those restless lids opened and the broken Apollo awoke.

"Hang it, what the hell—" Joly gasped as he jumped back, almost falling onto another sleeping patient behind him as he did.

Apollo lay quietly, observing Joly's startled reaction.

"Sorry." Joly cleared his throat, fumbling with the sleeves of his jacket. He quickly introduced himself with a smile, almost missing the forlorn expression in Apollo's eyes as Joly thoroughly checked his vitals. _Respiration, blood pressure, pulse, and temperature_. Joly went through the steps easily now after those months of emergency training.

Through the process Apollo lay as quiet and still as he had before, and Joly began to wonder at Dr. Dupard's comment earlier. Wild? This man seemed far from it. Tired and sad seemed to fit him better.

"So, Apollo, eh?" Joly asked, holding up the sketchbook. "Interesting name. Is it your real one, or..."

"No."

Joly paused, surprised. In all honesty, he hadn't expected an answer. By now he was used to one-sided conversation to comfort unresponsive patients. Apollo was a quiet man, from what he could tell, and from the look of those clear and steady eyes he seemed a rational one as well.

"What _is_ your name, then?"

Apollo stared back at him, silent. Joly sighed inwardly; he shouldn't have expected to get too far in such a short time.

He thought he'd give it one more try.

Joly held up the sketchbook Dr. Dupard had shown him, letting it fall open to a random sketch; one of a bespectacled young man reading at a table. The label read... _Combeferre_. "Can you tell me something about this man?"

Apollo's eyes hardened and suddenly he bolted upright in his bed, shaking with the effort, and seemed about to lunge at Joly.

Joly quickly stepped to the side, hiding the sketchbook in his coat. _Stupid, stupid idiot you are,_ he told himself. _You've only upset him._

Joly gently gripped Apollo's bare shoulder, easing him back in bed. By now the man had given his struggle up, but still looked at Joly with hatred and hurt.

"Be easy," he murmured to the man, looking around to see whether any nurses had noticed the commotion. They hadn't. Joly let out a breath of relief. He didn't know why, but he felt unusually protective of his new patient, and—well, he had a feeling that some of the other nurses wouldn't be as patient with Apollo's antics. "I'm sorry. It's too soon."

Before Joly finally gathered the strength to look at Apollo, he could have sworn he'd heard him say something.

* * *

It was three more weeks before Apollo spoke again. By now Joly and Apollo had figured out their routine; Joly checked in on him every couple of hours or so, making small talk that Apollo never responded to. When he found himself alone, he studied the pages in the sketchbook, trying to piece together what kinds of lives the people in it had led. There was so much life and expression in each face, which seemed to be trying to say something to Joly; what it was, he didn't know. Not yet.

"You hurt your leg," Apollo remarked, watching Joly's noticeable limp as he moved around in the narrow space, finishing up with checking Apollo's vitals. In spite of his reaction those few weeks ago, he had returned to his calm and silent state. Until now.

Joly looked down automatically at his leg and smiled uncomfortably. "Yes, I did, in the war, but—that doesn't matter. Nearly healed." He reached down to pull the hem of his pants up, revealing a wooden prosthetic leg. "Dr. Dupard wants me to get used to walking without the stick." He grimaced, and realized too late that it was rather unprofessional.

Apollo snorted. It was the smallest thing really, unnoticeable, even—but Joly noted it at once and beamed in response.

Apollo frowned.

Joly sighed. "How does your breathing feel?" He asked, though he already knew it must hurt something hellish with his ribs still unhealed.

Apollo shrugged (or, as much as he was able lying down), and Joly noticed he winced almost unnoticeably at the movement. Joly lifted the shirt covering Apollo's wounds, gently examining the cuts on his torso which didn't seem to be healing—he hoped they hadn't gotten infected. He'd have to ask Dr. Dupard about it. When Apollo next spoke, Joly nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Did you fight?"

Joly's breath caught in his throat at the suddenness of the question, and he struggled for a moment to form an answer. Joly didn't meet Apollo's eyes. "I was with the FFI résistance— _forces françaises de l'intérieur_ —for a few months, and worked as a medic on the fields. Lost my leg, healed up, and was called up here."

Joly felt his leg ache again, the way it always seemed to do now when he was around this Apollo, getting too close to the edge of memories he'd fought so hard to ignore.

"Do you have family left?"

Apollo's question was careful, quiet, and when Joly met his eyes, he could tell it was genuine. Joly cleared his throat.

"I've answered enough questions, I think, to warrant you answering at least one of mine," he said lightly, beginning to replace Apollo's bandages.

Apollo's eyes flashed—for a moment Joly froze, trapped in the uncertainty of what he'd said. There was fear in those eyes, terrible fear—and fury. Joly realized that a man who had been interrogated and tortured for months by the Nazis might have unpleasant memories associated with such a phrase.

Joly fell silent, unsure of what to do, what to say. His task was growing more and more difficult—could he keep this up? Moreover, the more he got to know his way around Apollo, the worse he felt—it felt wrong to demand answers that weren't his to receive. Joly bit his lip and kept his eyes on the task at hand.

"My parents are in America. They left just when the war started, which I know is good because of the kids—my sisters—but, of course, it gets lonely. Better than having no one, I suppose. As for my friends—" Joly stopped, fighting down the lump in his throat. He'd said enough.

Apollo regarded him carefully as Joly finished applying the new bandages.

"What do you want to know?"

Joly whipped his head up in surprise. Apollo didn't meet his eyes, but seemed to look through Joly entirely.

"How about your name?"

Apollo didn't answer for the longest time, and Joly was about to resign himself to another failure.

"Enjolras. Gabriel Enjolras." The words were stiff and practiced, and Joly knew this was an answer he had given more than once to the Germans.

"Well, Enjolras," said Joly, testing out the name, "I have to say, it's almost as good as Apollo. _Almost_. It's very noble."

Enjolras shook his head, closing his eyes as Joly completed his usual once over of his injuries. Joly couldn't contain the ridiculous grin on his face—Apollo— _Enjolras_ —appeared to like him, trust him at last, even.

* * *

As Joly shrugged on his coat, ready to go home for the night, Sister Simplice caught up to him on his way out.

"How is the Apollo?"

Joly smiled. "Apparently our Apollo is an Enjolras."

Sister Simplice's eyes widened. "He's spoken to you? That's his name?"

Joly nodded. "He's a quiet soul, Sister—I can't understand what Dr. Dupard meant by his being 'wild'. He's been through war, real war, far worse than you and I, but he survived. It's remarkable, isn't it?"

Sister Simplice gave him an odd look. "You don't know, do you?" She asked with an air of sad incredulousness.

Joly furrowed his brow. "Know what?"

Sister Simplice shook her head. "You've only worked day shifts here, I'd forgotten. He's a terror at night—refuses to go to sleep, and puts up a fight with the doctors. He has to be sedated, and even then..." Sister Simplice hesitated before continuing. "His nightmares must be something terrible. He keeps the whole building up with his screaming."

Joly felt his stomach drop, and suddenly felt like a fool; he'd been so confident that he'd figured the man out at last, earned his confidentiality to some degree; but he hadn't even scratched the surface.

The whole way home to his apartment in the eight arrondissement, Joly had Enjolras on his mind. As Joly lay in bed half an hour later, he couldn't sleep. The thought that somewhere not too far, Apollo— _Enjolras_ —was hurting left a cold and empty feeling in his heart.

* * *

"I want to work the night shift."

Joly braced himself for—whatever was going to happen. Actually, he didn't know. He'd never considered working the latest shift recently—he'd assumed that if he did the action would tear apart the very fabric of the universe. It simply wasn't supposed to happen. Odd, that since Enjolras had arrived Joly had found himself spared of the exhausting late night shifts. He hadn't found any reason to complain.

Instead of a fatal explosion, earthquake, or other untimely disaster, Joly was met with a raised eyebrow from Dr. Dupard.

"Really? For Apollo, I assume? I thought you'd be happy with the earlier workdays."

Joly nodded, trying to calm the sudden restlessness he felt in his hands to do something. Shoving them in his coat pockets, he cleared his throat and met Dr. Dupard's eyes.

"You didn't tell me about his fits at night." Joly allowed his voice to rise in pitch on the last note so the statement was more of a question. Dr. Dupard's expression never changed.

"No, I didn't." His voice was thoughtful, and his sharp eyes never left Joly. Joly fought against the urge to squirm under that forceful gaze, to keep eye contact, to remain professional and cool—and somehow managed to do so, more or less in that order.

"Why?"

"You seemed like you were progressing well enough with him. It's only been a month, Joly."

Joly stared at him. "You told me yourself the importance of knowing everything about a patient—"

"Yes, well, this patient is different." Dr. Dupard's tone was such that made Joly understand his meaning immediately. Whatever it was, Joly was not meant to ask any further.

"Why?" Joly pushed despite the warnings going off in his head, a daring move he never would have thought he'd make. But he couldn't help himself. "Why is he different? Why has he been transferred across so many hospitals, and who is it we think he is? How can I help when I know nothing about him?"

Dr. Dupard suddenly seemed closer, bigger even despite his small stature, as though he were looming over Joly. "This isn't a conspiracy, Joly. This is our work - you know it's not easy. He's moved hospitals because someone wants him here—his care is being paid for generously by an anonymous donor. I need you to be professional, Joly. Do what you've been told to and stay on track." Dr. Dupard's voice was clear and cold, and for what seemed an interminably long moment his eyes never left Joly. "Take the night shift if you want. But remember what I said." He stared hard at Joly, his eyes suddenly sharp behind his glasses. With a curt nod, he dismissed Joly and walked away.

Joly remained in the hallway for a moment, listening to the busy sounds of the wards outside, the steady hum of work and duty. Work and duty, that was his priority. It had to be. He allowed Dr. Dupard's words to quell the last of his worries as he began to prepare for what he knew would be a long night.

* * *

Work went on as usual. Joly made his rounds, fueled up on coffee in stolen moments, and joined the nurses for a smoke on his break. In his occasional glimpses of Enjolras, he noticed that the man was no different from how he usually behaved. He lay quiet and still, let Joly work on him, and as usual, said next to nothing besides the bare responses he gave to Joly's questioning and assessments of his injuries.

After dosing a hysterical patient with a sedative, Joly found himself free for a moment. When he'd first started out in this position several months ago, Joly had found it hard to believe that the night shift could be more chaotic than the day; but these were war veterans here, who screamed in their sleep and begged doctors not to put them under when they were being too resistant. He passed by an older man who writhed and twisted in his sleep, muttering "Jamie, Jamie," again and again in a frantic voice. There was a child who cried for her mother every night, her head completely covered in bandages. Joly knew he'd hear them long after he'd left the building.

But he always kept Enjolras in his periphery. When he saw from the corner of his eye a familiar shadow hovering over Enjolras, Joly's attention was caught and he saw Dr. Dupard leaning over a flailing Enjolras. From where he was standing, Joly couldn't make out much more than Dr. Dupard's back, but the rest was unmistakable. Through the noise of the other patients, Joly strained to hear Enjolras' voice. It was distinct and slow, pleading and loud.

Joly was up in an instant, weaving hurriedly between the beds, ignoring the fierce pain shooting up his leg as he strained to hurry. He drew up to Dr. Dupard, pulling him back by the shoulder. Sister Perpetue stood on the other side of the bed, a frustrated scowl written across her face. Enjolras was trembling, sweating—and Dr. Dupard straightened, holding a syringe in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Joly asked loudly, surprised at how his fists clenched themselves so easily, how his feet had positioned themselves in a stance of defense, just how he had been taught to by—

"He has to be sedated, Joly," Dr. Dupard said tightly. His jaw was tensed, and normally Joly would balk in fear at this. Comply humbly and follow orders like a good soldier.

But he felt no fear now.

"Not like this," Joly protested. He looked down at Enjolras again, who had grown quiet, but was still shaking and looking at Dr. Dupard with an indescribable look in his eyes. It unsettled Joly to see him like this; he suddenly understood too well why Dr. Dupard had called him "wild".

"Let me talk to him," Joly said, his voice quieter as he forced himself to calm down. "If things do get bad, I'll give it to him. Just let me talk to him. Please?"

Dr. Dupard looked as though he were about to put Joly on cleaning duty for the rest of his life, the way his face had grown red and his teeth clenched. Then he relaxed, and the anger was replaced by weariness.

"This is the third night in a row he hasn't slept, Joly. You know what will happen."

He did. Enjolras' body was still struggling to fight off infection, and that would be impossible without actual rest. It was already difficult enough to treat his wounds as it was, but if he were to finally catch fever—his chances of surviving would be even lower.

Something in Joly knew it wasn't Enjolras' life so much as his testimony that Dr. Dupard wanted to preserve.

"Please." The word came out as a breath, quiet and wavering and hopeful.

Dr. Dupard rubbed his temples and exchanged a look with Sister Perpetue. She had that same look which somehow was both angry and disinterested at once. She shrugged, already picking up her coarse woolen skirts and beginning to move on to fulfill her next duty. Dr. Dupard looked at Joly again, and this time Joly thought he had finally gone too far. This was it for him, for his opportunity to help, to make a difference. Gone because he couldn't keep his mouth shut, because he couldn't follow the orders of a senior doctor.

"Fine."

Joly blinked.

Had he heard correctly? Dr. Dupard's glare hadn't softened, his scowl hadn't disappeared, and the noticeable tick in his jaw was still there.

"Really? Thank you -"

"Don't thank me. Get something useful and report to me in the morning, Joly. If we don't start seeing real progress I'll assign someone else to him." With those last words, Dr. Dupard finally capped the syringe, placing it on the little table next to Enjolras' bed, turned on his heel and disappeared from the hall.

Joly approached Enjolras slowly, his hands in the air to show he was, to put it lightly, unarmed. Enjolras watched him with distrust, and Joly suddenly somehow only then noticed the dark shadows resting in rings under Enjolras' eyes.

Joly sat down on the little stool next to the bed. "You know, I didn't think you were the type to be afraid of needles."

For a long time Enjolras said nothing. Joly didn't expect him to, either. The last conversation (or whatever their interactions could be called) seemed to have brought some sort of understanding between the two of them. But Joly didn't even know where to begin with...this.

"I'm not."

Surprised, Joly tried to contain his eagerness. It was a rarity to hear Enjolras speak, and it was a welcome sign. It showed that he did still have the mental presence so many of the other nurses believed he'd lost.

Despite these attempts, Enjolras clearly noticed Joly's eagerness anyway. He looked to the other side away from Joly, his cheek resting on his pillow.

"If I'm sedated - I can't wake up."

Enjolras' words cut off there, but Joly understood at once.

He didn't want to be trapped in the nightmares.

Joly swallowed down the rising lump in his throat. He didn't know what to do. Ask him to suture a 33mm caliber bullet wound, that he could do. Treat pneumonia, amputate a limb (...well enough), nurse patients through long bouts of fever, no problem. But Joly was too familiar with dealing with his own nightmares; he wasn't so sure he was ready to take on someone else's as well. Especially someone like Enjolras. He didn't want to imagine what Enjolras saw each night, which memories he was forced to relive, to suffer through over and over again.

For now he would forget about his own problems, Joly decided. They weren't so important, not to anyone, and they shouldn't be to him. What was important was taking care of his patient - so he would.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

As Joly asked the question, he didn't have Dr. Dupard and his duty to record a rebel's life story on his mind. He didn't weigh the benefits of a former POW's tale, the significance the association of success would bring to Joly's name. He asked because he hoped it would help, and because it was the only thing he could think to do.

Enjolras slowly turned his head and met Joly's eyes. "So that you can publish my life in a journal or magazine to impress your superiors?"

Joly stared at him, taking a moment to register the accusation. He knew. _Of course_ he knew what Joly had been told, and of course he would find it hard to trust him when he thought he was exploiting his vulnerability. Joly suddenly hated himself and the building he was in. He hated the doctors and nurses he talked to and worked with each day, hated them for making him do something so terrible as this.

"No - I just thought it might help," Joly said honestly. Because it was true; at the moment he couldn't care less about what Dr. Dupard wanted. He'd first started his arduous medical training because he wanted to help people, not use them.

"Did it help you?" Enjolras asked, his eyes suddenly intense. Joly felt uncomfortably exposed under that stare, which seemed to see through all of his pretenses and to a truth which he didn't think he knew himself.

"I haven't had anyone to talk to," Joly said, trying not to let it get to him. He had to be cool, professional…

Enjolras drew a long, painful sounding breath, one which caused Joly to nearly jump off the edge of his seat. Enjolras shook his head tiredly and said, "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours."

Joly shook his head, reaching out and pressing Enjolras' hand gently. Enjolras flinched visibly in surprise at this contact and stiffened, until a moment later he relaxed. "You don't have to, you know."

"I do," Enjolras said quietly. "I owe it to them." He stared off into space, lost in thought, until he addressed Joly again with an alarming energy. "Get the sketchbook and let it fall open."

Joly rummaged through the rucksack of Enjolras' few belongings stored under the cot and did as Enjolras bid him. Letting the book fall open to the most visited page, Joly saw a rough sketch, different and more amateur in style than the others, followed by a large wall of writing. The sketch was of a squat building on the corner of an identifiable Parisian street, a cafe of sorts. The faded sign hanging above the window read _Cafe Musain_. The date was signed November 4, 1940.


	2. Chapter 2

_November 4, 1940_

The rest of Paris was always sleeping when Enjolras went to work. There was no trace of the sun, and darkness provided both a comforting shelter and a mask over one’s eyes. Enjolras was careful on these missions - he couldn’t afford to be stopped by a German officer for being out before the new curfew had ended. 

Enjolras walked briskly through the second arrondissement of Lyon, his eyes and ears alert for approaching footsteps or movement in the shadows. Down Rue Victor-Hugo and through Avenue de la Bourdonnais, Enjolras kept his head down, his cap pulled over his ears, and his footsteps light. He was to meet someone at the intersection of Bosquet and Piquet; he had to keep up the hope that he would not be left waiting. The sun would be up again soon. Enjolras pushed aside the thought of what that would mean for him - for him and the others. 

He was still walking with his head down when he collided with another person.

Enjolras’ heart hammered in his chest and he struggled to right himself quickly to get out as quickly as possible. In that instant, his calculating mind started to run through his options. He had not yet been caught, and his face had not yet been identified. If he could just run fast _enough_ \- 

“Enjolras? Is that you?” 

Enjolras’ blood ran cold and fear paralyzed his limbs as the alarms went off in his head.

“Enjolras?” The whisper became a soft call, and Enjolras heaved a sigh of relief at the familiar voice.

“Courfeyrac, one of these days I swear you’ll be the death of me. Why aren’t you at the Invalides?”

As Enjolras pulled the cap out of his eyes, he saw a man emerge from the darkness. His features were almost indiscernible in the dark, but the gleaming brightness of his grin gave him away. 

“I wanted to surprise you. Aren’t I a gem?” Courfeyrac pulled Enjolras close in an embrace, which Enjolras immediately tried to resist. Courfeyrac murmured in his ear, “There are dozens of Germans surrounding the hospital, _mon ami._ It’s not safe for us there right now. Take the pamphlets to Montaigne, it should be clear.”

“Aren’t you coming?” Enjolras asked sharply. 

Courfeyrac shook his head with a smug grin as he pulled away. “I have a girl waiting for me. Besides, I still have to prepare for the demonstration next week.”

Enjolras shot him an icy glare. “Last time you’re getting away with this, Courfeyrac.”

“Ah, just get home before curfew ends, you old grump,” Courfeyrac said with a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, I’m doing my part. I think I even got us a new recruit.” 

Enjolras sighed. “You can’t keep trying to recruit your dates to the Resistance, Courfeyrac. Last time you did, that girl - Claire? - nearly gave us away to the Germans for a piece of chocolate.”

“Can you blame her?” Courfeyrac’s agreeable manner suddenly slipped away, and his smile turned into a scowl. “Damned Germans, they’re making fools of us, Enjolras. It’s humiliating, all of these curfews and rationing, and -”

“I know,” Enjolras said quietly, glancing around again in the dark alley to ensure they were still alone. “But not for long. We won’t be able to do anything about it if you can’t keep your mouth shut. Not everyone can be trusted. Some people are willing to trade their loyalty to their country for more rations. People are giving up too quickly.”

Courfeyrac was silent, until he sighed and smiled a little. “Well, you have nothing to worry about. The recruit isn’t a girl, as far as I know. I’ll bring him around next week?”

Enjolras sent him a sharp look. He'd met dozens of variations of Courfeyrac's acquaintances, and a great deal of them were people he definitely did _not_ want to welcome to the Resistance just yet. “At the demonstration? We can’t risk it, Courfeyrac, we’ve been preparing for weeks -” 

“Strength in numbers,” Courfeyrac shrugged. Enjolras noticed a lack of something in his voice, in his face. Courfeyrac was decidedly less buoyant than usual. 

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asked.

Courfeyrac laughed half-heartedly. “Besides our country being ridden with Nazi trash?”

Enjolras blood boiled at the reminder, but how could he forget? He was met with the evidence everywhere he went. It was their lifestyle now. Curfews from nine at night till five in the morning - anyone caught between those times was taken in for interrogation. Paris was hungry - it had been months since Enjolras had last enjoyed butter on his bread or milk in his coffee. 

But these things were harder for Courfeyrac, he knew. Courfeyrac, who was used to living and talking extravagantly, struggled to keep his head held high at the new humiliations the Germans caused, struggled to bite his tongue; even though he knew if he didn't, it would cost him his life. 

“It won’t last,” Enjolras promised him, clasping Courfeyrac’s hand in his. “I promise it won’t last. We’re going to rid our home of the Germans until Paris is free.” 

Courfeyrac met his eyes, and Enjolras noticed they were worried, more so than he’d ever seen them. Courfeyrac smiled. “Then it looks like we have work to do.” 

Courfeyrac twisted to reach a leather satchel hanging at his waist, and rummaged through it for a few seconds. He pulled out a thick manila folder and handed it to Enjolras. 

Enjolras held his breath as he opened it, revealing a large stack of pamphlets. This was the result of weeks of work, organizing, collaborating - all for a chance at getting the sleeping people of Paris to stir from their compliance to the German invaders. These pamphlets, printed with a call to action, a call to join the French Resistance - Enjolras didn’t have much time to distribute them before the sun rose and curfew ended. 

“You sure you can deliver them on time?”

Enjolras nodded, admiring the little sketches of barricades and soldiers on the sides of the papers. “What are these drawings?”

Courfeyrac scratched at the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “Grantaire offered to help make them more presentable. He helped a great deal with all of this, actually.”

Enjolras stiffened and snapped the folder shut. “He’s a drunkard, Courfeyrac.” 

“He’s got spirit.”

“He told me he doesn’t see the point in resisting. He was _seen_ drinking with the Nazis!”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “You don’t know the whole story, Enjolras.”

“I don’t need to.”

Courfeyrac shook his head with a grin. “Of course you don’t. By the way,” he said slowly, shuffling his feet in a somewhat nervous manner. “Have you heard from... _him_?”’

“Combeferre?” Enjolras asked dispassionately, watching Courfeyrac’s eyes narrow. “I trust you’re talking about our _friend,_ Combeferre - he’s doing fine. He asks how you’re doing, by the way.”

Courfeyrac scoffed. “As if I care about that traitor.”

“Going to England to handle communications for the Resistance can hardly be called traitorous.”

“He left us,” Courfeyrac said. “He left _France_.”

“Someone had to go,” Enjolras reminded him. “He knew neither of us would want to leave. Don’t be petulant, Courfeyrac.”

“But I do it so well,” Courfeyrac shot back with a grin. 

Enjolras smacked him lightly on the shoulder and sighed as he looked up at the sky. “Well, we can’t hang around much longer. I should get going.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “I’ll let you get to it. Be safe, Enjolras.”

Enjolras nodded and watched Courfeyrac leave. “You too,” he murmured before Courfeyrac was out of earshot. 

* * *

Throughout Enjolras’ entire route, he cursed himself and the Germans repeatedly for the loss of his rusty old bicycle. He never thought he’d miss that unsterilized death-trap (as Combeferre so often liked to put it) until it was confiscated. How useful it would have been on these missions. 

Enjolras snuck the pamphlets in mailboxes, gates, under porches, and anywhere inconspicuous to outside eyes but sure to be noticed by the homeowner. As directed by Courfeyrac, he circled back to Montaigne to end his route before reaching his apartment on Rue Marceau. Treading the steps lightly to avoid arousing the suspicion of his landlord, Enjolras arrived inside his apartment and collapsed, exhausted, in a chair. His head throbbed a little with his exercise, and he closed his eyes to enjoy a few moments of peace before officially starting his day. 

As he watched the slowly growing streaks of light in the sky through the window, Enjolras was struck by the silence of his apartment, and realized he’d been waiting. Waiting to hear the sounds of the sink running, footsteps pacing back and forth through the rooms, water boiling on the stove, the smell of coffee wafting through the air, the deep hum of a popular new tune. Enjolras shook himself off and stood up, trying not to let his eyes fall on the door of Combeferre’s now-empty room to his right. 

Enjolras retreated into his room and quickly dressed, mentally ticking off the things he still had to get done today. _Attend classes, meet Courfeyrac and the others for the meeting_...Enjolras walked back to the little kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets for something to eat. 

He added to his list, _Get more rations._

* * *

The Cafe Musain was the perfect place for underground and illegal activity. Such had been Enjolras’ motivations in choosing it as a meeting ground. Tucked away in an unsuspicious and remote area in Paris, away from the main German headquarters, and barely afloat in business, the cafe served its purpose for Enjolras and the other members of the Resistance. 

Before knocking on the fairly well-hidden back door, Enjolras’ gaze swept over the street with caution, eyeing the windows of occupied houses across the street in particular, ensuring no eyes were upon him. Satisfied, he knocked the correct number of times to be granted access inside. 

A sentry window that Enjolras was certain had not been there a few days ago opened, revealing the wide brown eyes of Courfeyrac.

“Password.”

Enjolras stared into the slot. “ _What_?”

“Password.” The word was followed by a series of snickers from more than one person, and Enjolras stifled a groan.

“Damn it, Courfeyrac, you can _see_ my face!”

The laughter quieted down a little, and Enjolras pressed his face to the slot to try to make out who was acting as Courfeyrac’s accomplice. 

“Can you just say the password, Enjolras? It took us an entire hour to make this. And call me by my codename.”

Enjolras decided he’d play along and strangle Courfeyrac when he got inside. “Fine. ‘Operation Active Duty.’”

Courfeyrac cocked an eyebrow. “Codename.”

Enjolras stared at him for a long time before answering through gritted teeth. “‘Apollo’ to ‘Tomcat’.”

Courfeyrac smiled. “Was that so hard?”

Enjolras heard the bolt slide through the lock, and immediately he pushed the door open and took Courfeyrac by the shoulders, ignoring the fact that his slight figure did not seem intimidating in the least next to Courfeyrac's. Courfeyrac flashed a grin until Enjolras gave him a serious look. 

“We’re only having a bit of fun, Enjolras, there’s no need to get riled up about it.”

“There’s no time for _fun_ ,” Enjolras reminded him, trying to maintain his patience. “Come on, let’s get this meeting started. Please tell me you’ve had the good sense to keep quiet in here. Madame Moulier complained to me last week about the noise, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re suspected.” 

Courfeyrac’s smile faded a little. “It’ll be fine, Enjolras. We’re careful, as always. Go on, start the meeting.” 

Enjolras shook his head and swallowed, looking around the room. Seven men in total were present today, including him and Courfeyrac. Enjolras contained a sigh and seated himself on the edge of one of the round tables in the middle of the room. 

“I’m going to make this short.” Enjolras silenced Courfeyrac’s snort with a look, and waited till the room had settled again. “Paris has been enslaved _,_ and it’s getting worse each day. Workers are being exploited, and food is getting harder to come by every day. These ration tickets _-_ they’re not enough for families, for children! Children are already going barefoot this winter because their mothers have to choose between food and shoes. We need more members to join us. We need to remind people that this is not the end, that the German invasion won’t last forever. Have you seen the yellow stars the Jews wear? Did you see, Courfeyrac, how our own friend Jehan Prouvaire was barred from the theater yesterday because of it? The Germans are taking our food, our vehicles, our houses, our families - while we suffer.”

“What do you want us to do about it now?” The question came from a student of the university with a sickly appearance. “We’re already preparing for the demonstration next week, Enjolras.”

Enjolras drew a deep breath before continuing. “Get more recruits. Don’t give in. Remember what General de Gaulle has been telling us - and never surrender. For now, do everything you can to set the Germans back and convince the people to do something, no matter how small. Our demonstration next week should bring more citizens to our side - it has to.” In the brief silence following Enjolras’ words, Enjolras knew everyone else was thinking the same thing. 

_It has to, because we might die for this._

Courfeyrac nodded encouragingly to the others and added, “Enjolras distributed the first batch of pamphlets today along the Bourdonnais route. Tomorrow morning, one of you will take the next batch along Champs de Elysees. It’ll be risky, considering the Germans, but if we can reach the people there, it’ll be even better for us. Pierre, can you do it?” 

The university boy nodded, already catching Courfeyrac’s contagious enthusiasm. Enjolras felt himself relax a little; he was grateful for Courfeyrac’s help in this. Despite the teasing and games, Courfeyrac had done so much in preparation and planning that Enjolras honestly didn’t know what he’d do without him. 

As Courfeyrac continued to organize the men into groups, Enjolras walked over to the wall on which a map of Paris was hung. On it was marked all of the most frequented shops and restaurants by the Germans, their headquarters, and the town halls they had taken over. It made Enjolras wince to see how quickly those marked areas had multiplied in the last few weeks. 

As the night wore on, Courfeyrac noted the time to Enjolras and swore eloquently. “Christ, it’s nearly nine, Enjolras. You won’t get to your apartment before curfew.”

Enjolras shook his head confidently. “I’ll get home in time, as long as I leave now. Good-night, Courfeyrac.”

“Come home with me instead,” Courfeyrac urged, worry shining in his eyes. “We can’t risk it, Enjolras. Do you even have your papers with you? The goal is not to draw attention to ourselves -”

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras promised. His eyes lingered on Courfeyrac for a second too long as he put on his coat and hat. He was certain that Courfeyrac just wanted company. Ever since Combeferre had left, Courfeyrac had been pushing Enjolras into staying late to go over plans, tagging after him before classes, and clinging in ways he simply hadn’t done before Combeferre’s absence. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras offered Courfeyrac one last forced smile before he left. He knew without looking it was reflected on Courfeyrac’s own face.

As Enjolras stepped out onto the streets, the first thing he saw was the message sprayed in red paint on one of the brick walls of a bakery directly across from the Musain. The message that was slowly, but surely, spreading through Paris, inevitably reaching the eyes and ears of every man, woman, and child who was unhappy with their country's current state.

The message read: 

_Vive de Gaulle. Vive la France._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I realize that the ending from the last chapter would imply that we're picking off from June 5th, but I swear I know what I'm doing. (but I might change it if it doesn't make sense later on?) This chapter was a tad lighter on the angst, but fear not, it's coming.
> 
> So that's how this story is going to go! Past = Enjolras POV, Present = Joly POV. I hope the narrative format makes sense to you guys? (but I'd love to hear what you guys think on the subject! hope you liked the chapter! :D)


	3. Chapter 3

When Joly finished up his shift that night, he didn’t know how he would ever sleep. Fourteen hours of almost nonstop running between patients, answering calls, and hearing what he was beginning to believe would be one of the most important stories ever told - he should be exhausted. Dead on his feet. He usually was on these nights. On these kinds of nights he was supposed to get a ride home, prepare tea, and fall asleep before the water had even started boiling. 

But tonight was different. After hearing what bits and pieces Enjolras had managed to share with him, Joly had gone home. He didn’t make tea, and he didn’t go to bed. He went to the ancient oak dresser in his room, one of the few pieces of furniture he had, and dislodged a journal stuffed in one of the shelves. 

Joly took that journal, seated himself on his bed, and began to write.

* * *

Joly returned for his next shift a couple of days later. This time around, Dr. Dupard hadn’t given him a hard time about the night shift; Joly supposed the doctor had nothing to hide from him anymore, and now just wanted work to get on as usual. Though Joly couldn’t help but hope that Dr. Dupard was beginning to have more faith in Joly, considering his recent successes. 

According to reports, Enjolras was sleeping more or less peacefully. After Enjolras had started his story those few nights ago, he’d fallen quiet for a while, answering Joly’s questions and concerns with monosyllabic words or not at all. Joly knew better than to press him. So far, the part of Resistance leader that Enjolras had played just a few years ago struck Joly as both terrifying and fascinating. He knew that whatever Enjolras was getting ready to tell him, it wasn’t going to be without pain for either of them. 

When Joly was on rotation, he stopped by Enjolras’ cot to check up on him. Giving him a quick smile, Joly skimmed the notes Sister Perpetue had added for him on the little nightstand. _No nightmares in the past few days, sometimes unresponsive, continued labored breathing (ribs unhealed?)._

“You’re back.”

Joly looked up, quickly tucking the notes away and greeting Enjolras. 

“I am. Did you miss me?” Joly asked, attempting a light and teasing tone as he tried to gauge just where he and Enjolras stood for now. 

Enjolras said nothing, as usual. Joly didn’t expect an answer anyway, so he sat down next to the cot for a moment to steady himself.

“So no more nightmares?” Joly asked, meeting Enjolras’ eyes, trying to hold back the triumphant grin. Enjolras looked as though he were about to roll his eyes and respond with some hidden wit, but as he opened his mouth he abruptly stopped. Enjolras simply shook his head.

“I’m fine.”

Joly wasn’t sure what this meant. He felt the beginnings of a disturbance bubble in the cauldron of his patience. It was so very _difficult_ \- he knew “fine” was never really fine. Fine wasn't sleepless nights and painful memories. Why couldn’t Enjolras just tell him how he really felt? How was Joly supposed to know how to help him otherwise? Joly didn’t want to be useless. Enjolras needed his help, and he would get it whether he liked it or not. 

“Are they gone?” Joly pressed. “Sister Perpetue says you’re finally getting your rest now, though still not enough of it. Are you sure you don’t want to try the sedative, now that the nightmares are gone? I know you said -”

“No.” Enjolras suddenly fixed his eyes on Joly, with perfect intensity and clarity. Joly found himself unable to speak for a second, and it took him a while to recover from the unearthly effect Enjolras had, even in his broken state. 

Joly nodded and rose. He avoided meeting Enjolras’ eyes, though he could feel Enjolras watching him. What could Joly do now but worry? He went to the intravenous infusion line hooked up next to Enjolras’ cot, inspecting the pump pressure in the bottle. The antibiotics dripping into Enjolras’ bloodstream through the IV wouldn’t be enough to fight off infection in Enjolras’ body if he didn’t get his rest. Joly was beginning to wonder with a heavy feeling in his stomach whether Dr. Dupard had been right, whether he should have let him put Enjolras under, much as he hated himself for it. 

They went through their regular routine in silence. Joly replaced the bandages for Enjolras’ hand, noting with satisfaction that his skin was growing back normally where it had been surgically cut away. Joly made a mental note to let Sister Perpetue know that her struggles to keep Enjolras from scratching at it hadn’t been in vain. Moving on to the sutured cuts on Enjolras’ torso, Joly winced at the angry welts that had formed around them. He worried that the infection they’d been fighting so hard to keep out was finally setting in. 

Joly couldn’t help but think about how many scars Enjolras would be left with by the time he was well enough to leave.

Joly swung his stethoscope around his neck and unbuttoned Enjolras’ hospital pajamas. Helping him sit up, Joly checked his breathing, ignoring Enjolras’ constant stare until he finished up.

 _You should go check on your other patients,_ the rational part of his brain told him. _There are still so many things to get done, to keep in order…_

 _One minute,_ Joly promised himself. Enjolras was facing away from him again, and Joly might have been tricked into believing he was asleep were it not for the nervous tapping of Enjolras’ fingers. 

“I never gave you my side of the story, did I?” Joly asked, willing some sort of response. He waited, not quite ready to give up and leave, when Enjolras finally turned to face him. 

Enjolras’ mouth twitched. “No, you didn’t.”

Joly forced himself not to smile. It never seemed to have the desired effect on Enjolras. “Well, before we get into that, I’ve been wanting to know. _Did_ you get caught before curfew that night? Where we left off, I mean?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows slightly. “You have to honor our agreement.”

Joly nodded reluctantly and looked down at the floor. He tugged at his coat sleeves nervously, wondering how to start.

“You lost your leg,” Enjolras prompted him, his eyes careful and guarded. “How did it happen?” 

“Fell out of an airplane,” Joly said, the words falling out of his mouth too easily. He shut his mouth before he said anything else, just for the time being. 

Funny, he hadn’t thought about it in all of the years since. Speaking the experience aloud suddenly brought the memories rushing back all at once, and Joly felt as though his senses were being flooded. Such a long fall - weightless in the air, wind slicing his cheeks and stinging his eyes. Screaming from above, screaming coming from _somewhere_ \- but not Joly. His mouth was dry as he hurtled through the sky, his hands freezing and numb as they desperately tried to open his parachute, and he was dizzy - so _dizzy_ \- 

“Joly?” Enjolras asked, his voice rising in volume. Joly blinked, realizing he had a deathly grip on the nightstand, as though it could anchor him. As though it could have possibly saved him.

“Sorry.” Joly cleared his throat, standing up so suddenly that Enjolras flinched back a little as he did. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have - I have other patients waiting for me. Forget what I said.” Joly pasted on an assuring smile as he stumbled away from Enjolras’ cot, feeling what remained of his missing leg ache more than ever. 

* * *

“How’s your patient?” Sister Simplice asked Joly later as she rolled out new bandages and lint dressings in the supply room. Joly had come to fetch something but couldn’t remember what it was for the life of him. 

“Fine,” Joly said. “At least that’s what he says. It’s really _all_ he says, actually.”

Sister Simplice pursed her thin lips in what Joly guessed was her attempt at a smile. “Monsieur, I think you underestimate the progress you’ve made with him. Then too, you forget everything he’s been through.”

Joly shook his head in embarrassment at her praise. “Have I, though? He still doesn’t trust me.”

“He doesn’t trust _anyone,”_ Sister Simplice reminded him gently, tucking away the bandages back in the cabinets. “He trusts you enough with what he’s given you so far, hasn’t he? I know the Doctor wants everything done quickly,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down a little, “but I don’t believe that’s the way. Time is what he needs, what you _both_ need.”

Joly opened his mouth to argue, but Sister Simplice shook her head and raised her hand up to stop him. 

“Now I suggest you go back to work.” Her tone was brisk and told Joly that the conversation was over. “Here’s that penicillin you came in for.” She handed Joly the little glass bottle seemingly from out of nowhere and swept out of the room. With the sudden quiet of her absence, it was as though she had never been there. Joly remained standing in the small room with its white walls, believing he’d never felt so suffocated as he did now - clutching the medicine in his hands as though it could tell him what to do. 

_Get back to work._

* * *

On his break, Joly flipped through the old sketchbook again. By now he’d memorized all of the different faces and names, but they still felt meaningless to him. He tried to form some idea of them from the drawings, tried to connect what pieces he was given to recognize each individual. Sometimes it worked; with the man named _Bahorel,_ Joly could almost hear a voice like the booming of a cannon, a fist whipped out in a flash. He traced the lines of Combeferre’s sketch, feeling a somber warmth spread through his chest. Something was there, reaching for him, but not quite. 

He had better luck with Courfeyrac. 

Joly ran his fingers over the page depicting that jovial young man described by Enjolras _._ He felt that from Enjolras’ brief description of him he could almost see that peculiar way his eyes sparkled. He almost felt he _knew_ him, and could imagine what it was to laugh and experience life in full color with this man.

Joly flipped through the book one last time, skipping the pages of Enjolras so he wouldn’t have to feel that painful twinge on seeing that brilliant, unblemished face so full of hope.

Yet there were so _many._

Joly slipped the book back inside his jacket next to his notebook, lingering a few seconds in his seat. He was due to give Enjolras his medicine right about now, and to hand in Enjolras’ report to Dr. Dupard. He was expected, relied on. 

With a sigh Joly stood, a little slower than usual, and put his apron back on for duty. 

Dr. Dupard met him halfway down the hall, signalling him to stop. “A word, Joly.”

Joly tried not to worry as he approached, counting off the dozens of things the head doctor could be preparing to berate him for. 

“How is your patient?” Dr. Dupard asked, his tone casual but his eyes piercing. Joly swallowed nervously and smiled. 

“I have many, Dr. Dupard, and they’re doing well enough.” 

“Don’t fool around, boy,” Dr. Dupard said, shaking his head seriously. “How is Monsieur Enjolras? It’s about time you’d gotten somewhere with him. Remember, I can send a nurse to take your place if you’re not up to the task.” As always, there was that extra meaning behind Dr. Dupard’s words, warning veiled behind concern and interest. Joly shook his head passionately. 

“No, no, everything’s fine.” _Fine. Isn’t that what Enjolras said that got you in such a twist?_

“Where’s his report?”

Joly hesitated. He knew what he was supposed to say. _Yes, Enjolras is talking about his past. Yes, the report’s finished. Yes, I can give it to you now._

“Joly.” Once again, Dr. Dupard gave him that look, that mix of disappointment and regret. That look that said Joly had let him down. Joly shuddered, and remembered where he was. _Who_ he was. He pushed what Enjolras had said to him last week out of his mind about Joly manipulating him for his own gain. But, Joly reasoned, _this_ was the only way to help him. 

“Yes, Dr. Dupard, I have my report ready for you.”

Dr. Dupard relaxed and took a step back. He smiled at Joly, clapping him on the back. “I’m glad to hear it, Joly, really I am. You can turn it in once you’ve finished your shift.”

As Dr. Dupard turned away, leaving Joly in the hallway. Joly’s stomach had come alive, twisting and churning angrily, sending him a more painful rebuke than Dr. Dupard ever could have. 

_You have betrayed your friend._

* * *

When he reached Enjolras’ bedside, Enjolras was awake and waiting for him. He watched Joly as he approached, the most peculiar expression on his face. It unsettled Joly to see that it too closely resembled _pity._

“Did you do it?” Enjolras asked, taking the little cup of medicine Joly gave him, wincing as he swallowed it down. Joly eyed him curiously. 

“Did I do what?”

“Give that doctor - your supervisor - what you wrote? About me, I mean?” 

Joly took a sharp breath at his words, and started to look anywhere and everywhere that was not Enjolras. He busied himself with preparing the fresh bandages as he considered and weighed what Enjolras had asked. Enjolras’ tone wasn’t accusing. It was sad, perhaps, curious, certainly - and Joly decided to tell him the truth. After all of the lies Enjolras found himself surrounded with each day, it was what he deserved. Joly braced himself for the impact of what he had to say.

“Not yet.” Joly raised his eyes to Enjolras midway through undressing his bandaged hand. Enjolras nodded, as though he’d already known. 

“But you will?” 

Joly nodded. 

Enjolras looked thoughtfully at Joly’s hands, which, quick and nimble at their task, now applied a salve and rebandaged Enjolras’ damaged hand with practiced precision. 

“We haven’t even gotten to the good bits yet,” Enjolras said with the barest hint of bitterness, staring up at the ceiling. 

Joly finished his task, taking his usual seat next to Enjolras. He wanted so badly then and there to assure Enjolras of his loyalty, to bring out the report and tear it to pieces in front of him. A sudden surge of impulsiveness and hope bloomed in his chest, and he imagined doing it. How unlike him it would be - it would be sure to shock someone. But sense grounded him and shut the impulse down, at least partially. “I can misplace it, you know - if you’d like. It’d give us a few days, though I’ll have to give it to him eventually. 

Enjolras just looked at him for the longest time, his expression, as usual, stony and unreadable. “Would you really do that?”

Joly didn’t need to consider the question as he offered Enjolras a grim smile. “Whether you like it or not, you’re my friend first, patient second. Unless it’s life or death and you need to be resuscitated, but that can be figured out later.” 

Enjolras nodded, returning to his serious train of thought. “Rather stupid of you.”

Joly didn’t deny it. Perhaps Enjolras was right and it _was_ stupid to be so presumptuous - but he couldn’t help himself. More so, it was wrong to pry into painful parts of Enjolras’ life that he didn’t want revealed, when he was already in such a weak physical condition. That much he knew. If Joly could put off his “national duty” for a while, however long it could last, he would. After all, Sister Simplice had said Enjolras needed time. He couldn’t knowingly cause pain when he was supposed to be easing it.

“I’ll go hide the report now.” Joly stood, a feeling of finality sinking into his chest. He didn’t want to imagine the conversation that would follow his next confrontation with Dr. Dupard. 

“Joly.”

Joly turned, expecting one of Enjolras’ usual nods or serious looks. 

“Come back,” Enjolras said, his voice unusually gentle, shifting his weight on his bed so that he was almost sitting up. Joly let out an offended exclamation.

“Not on your own, Enjolras.” He hurriedly helped Enjolras into a sitting position before he could do any more harm to himself, and was shocked at the uncharacteristic touch when Enjolras placed his thin and unhurt hand on Joly’s shoulder. Joly sat down, waiting. 

“I agreed to tell you - so I will.”

“Are you sure you want to?” 

“No,” Enjolras said, “but it doesn't matter. There are people - they don't deserve to be forgotten.” His voice was thick with emotion, and Joly was worried it would be too much for him.

Joly clasped Enjolras’ hand, and for one moment, he allowed himself to sit idly, to be in the presence of someone who was more than a patient under his care. God, it had been too long since Joly had so fully trusted and respected somebody - he’d known Enjolras only these short weeks and he felt already as though he would gladly go into battle with him. 

Joly removed his hand, withdrawing the notebook he’d been tracking Enjolras’ story in. “So I suppose we keep going.” 

Enjolras nodded, taking a deep breath. “Since you asked before, no, I didn’t get caught after curfew that night. Looking back on it now it really was stupid of me to be out.” He paused for a beat, staring at his hands. “That next week - the eleventh of November, 1940, the demonstration - that was the first real sign of resistance in France that year.”


	4. Chapter 4

_November 11, 1940_

On Rue Berjon of the eighth arrondissement, Enjolras and Courfeyrac waited.

The early evening air was cool and sent shivers up Enjolras' spine - it was either the cold or his excitement. Excitement or dread? Enjolras wasn't entirely sure. This was their first big step - and it was finally happening. _Today._ A real form of action against the occupation, the first one that would matter - more than open complaints and spray paint on buildings, simple annoyances to the Germans. Enjolras' pulse quickened at the thought of what they would accomplish if they succeeded; convince more citizens to answer de Gaulle's call, unite Paris' citizens against the German invaders, make them _realize_ that Petain was in the wrong -

He knew very well what would happen if they did not succeed. But on that, he did not want to dwell.

If Enjolras entertained at least a little caution, Courfeyrac was too confident by contrast.

"Where's your esteemed recruit?" Enjolras asked a little teasingly, unable to conceal the _I told you so_ in his voice.

"Ah, him - he was rather occupied this week, and he begs your pardon to be excused. He says he awaits the next chance to protest with all eagerness," Courfeyrac said. He promptly changed the topic a moment later, the playfulness in his eyes fading a bit. "Did you give the boys the right address?" Courfeyrac asked, his energy at unusual heights. He frequently removed and replaced the hat on his head, and had checked his watch four times in the past minute. His little huffs of impatience made Enjolras smile a little. When he rubbed his hands together, Enjolras briefly wondered whether it was from the cold or from nerves; he knew Courfeyrac too well to believe in his undaunted act.

"You know I did." Enjolras risked a sidelong glance at Courfeyrac, observing the abuse Courfeyrac's cherished hat was being put through. He nudged him with his elbow and reminded him, "We're ready, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac just nodded, his eyes scanning the mostly quiet street. Enjolras bowed his head, running through their plans once more in his head to ground himself. They were prepared. They were _ready,_ and so were the people.

They were ready.

"There." Courfeyrac let out a breath as he inclined his head towards the figures approaching them. Enjolras raised his head and felt a little relief at the sight of their group. He couldn't help but count them in the hope that several dozen more had joined overnight.

He stifled his disappointment quickly.

They were nine all together; Enjolras saw Courfeyrac glance at him questioningly from the corner of his eye, but he stared straight ahead, determined not to waver at their small numbers. Before beginning their walk, they shared a knowing look amongst themselves, a look that held all the weight of months of hiding and planning.

_We are ready._

* * *

The little group marched in steady silence to the Arc de Triomphe, their intended rioting ground. No, not a riot, Enjolras corrected himself, a _peaceful_ demonstration. Violence had its place, and certainly would in the time to come.

Just not yet.

Along the way, Enjolras caught sight of people hurrying back from work, tired older men and housewives, the leftover people from the war. He noticed young children running circles around their tired mother, and overheard one say, "Maman, I'm still _hungry_."

The mother shook her head at her son, and sent him off again. Enjolras thought about all of the children and French citizens going hungry so that somewhere, some important German officer could dine in full luxury.

_Not for long._

As usual, the Champs-Élysées Avenue was occupied with Germans. Laughing and talking leisurely as they loitered outside cafes, flirting outrageously with every French girl who happened to pass; they were only too comfortable in this stolen land. Their thick tongues were clumsy over their intentionally obscene French vocabulary. Enjolras caught sight of a couple of men in German uniform performing their raised arms and " _Heil Hitler_ "'s in front of some schoolgirls crossing the streets. He felt Courfeyrac stiffen beside him, and sent him a look of warning.

They were hardly paid any attention as they marched along. They blended in well among the other university students coming in from their classes, and for a moment Enjolras let himself believe they were more than a motley group of boys fighting something so much bigger than themselves. He let himself hope they would not be alone.

At the Arc de Triomphe they stopped in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, loitering a moment to face the busiest streets of the city. Here they were really in the center of all things, in one of the biggest sectors of Paris. If they couldn't reach the people from here, then it couldn't be done anywhere.

Enjolras exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, and then they took the step and there really was no going back.

* * *

They had been marching around the Arc de Triomphe for more than an hour and nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ was coming of it. They had their calls to action to address the people, but no one stopped to listen. Parisian citizens kept their heads down and rushed away, while the few German officers around seemed to see right through them.

Enjolras didn't know which was worse; being ignored, or treated as though they didn't exist.

"Enjolras," Pierre started. The boy quailed immediately at a look from Enjolras. Courfeyrac thus generously took over for him.

"Enjolras, this is pointless."

Enjolras felt a chill pass through his body at those words coming from Courfeyrac. "After everything we've done, you're giving up for -"

"I'm not saying we should give up," Courfeyrac interrupted him impatiently. He glared at a young German officer standing a few feet away with a wide smile stretched across his face. "But this isn't working."

Enjolras said nothing, his mind wildly scrambling for a solution. He didn't have to worry for long. The German who'd been eyeing them for the past few minutes suddenly drew closer and shouted a string of curses at them in broken French. His comrades chuckled and joined in on the insults in their own language.

Enjolras shouted above their voices, doing everything to ignore the taunts and jibes which he knew wouldn't matter in the long run - they'd get what was due to them soon enough. He thought he met the eyes of a few Frenchmen over the clamoring of the Germans and was filled with hope for a full second. Three out of four turned away with guilty expressions, but one remained. Enjolras barely had time to address him before he realized that Courfeyrac was missing.

"My god -" Enjolras inhaled sharply as he turned around, searching for Courfeyrac beyond the heads of the other students. His heart pounded mercilessly in his chest, and it was then that he saw they were down to five protesters from the original nine.

"Enjolras!"

Enjolras whipped around, expecting to see Courfeyrac behind him, perfectly safe and following their original plan.

"Pierre?" Enjolras asked uneasily. "Where's Courfeyrac?" Enjolras found himself shouting to be heard over the sudden clamor of the area, and before Pierre even said anything his gaze fell upon the Germans that had been taunting them.

Courfeyrac was crowded in by two soldiers who held him between them, yelling inaudible strings of German and French sentences into his face. Enjolras watched with horror as Courfeyrac's face suddenly went from one of impatience to that of indescribable rage and fury. Courfeyrac wrenched himself free from their grasps and spat in their faces.

" _German bastards!"_

It all went downhill from there. The Germans were suddenly joined by more, and the chaos drew curious citizens into the crowd. Enjolras lost sight of Courfeyrac, Pierre, and the rest of the group; in an instant they were swallowed by the sea of people around them. Enjolras shouted till his voice was hoarse. He shouted, he screamed, he very nearly cried - where were his friends? _Let them be safe,_ Enjolras thought desperately before he was shoved to the ground by the force of the crowd. He felt a kick to his side and ducked his head just in time to avoid damage to his head by a confused woman and her husband. Despair settled in his chest as he realized he couldn't get up in the midst of this stampede of people shoving and yelling.

That was when he heard the first of the gunshots. They were in the midst of a storm.

 _This was supposed to be peaceful,_ the voice in Enjolras' head said desperately. Enjolras could almost hear the quiet frustration of Combeferre. _Was it worth it?_

And suddenly Enjolras was being swept along the tide of people, his hand tightly clasped in another's, and for one brief moment he could have laughed with relief as he thought, _Courfeyrac._ But it wasn't Courfeyrac's, this hand was large and rough and calloused - the person attached to it dragged Enjolras through the darkening streets. Several times Enjolras nearly stumbled, and he tried unsuccessfully to make out the face of his rescuer.

At the first quiet street the man abruptly stopped, scanning the area, and Enjolras finally had the chance to look at him. Gigantic, brawny, and browned, with a full dark moustache. After a moment of scrutiny he recognized him as the man who had stayed to watch the demonstration.

In what Enjolras could only describe as the most unexpected course of action, the man looked at him and flashed him a wide smile that somehow reminded Enjolras of a tiger's grin. "You're welcome."

Enjolras stared at him coolly. There were so many questions he knew he needed to ask, but his mind still whirled with the events of the past few minutes and this new situation - whatever this was. It took all of his strength to muster the will to respond as his mind tried to organize his thoughts coherently.

"For what, exactly?"

The man laughed and shook his head. "Saving your ass, for one." He walked a few paces off to a nondescript inn, which Enjolras guessed had been the intended destination. He looked at Enjolras, gesturing for him to follow. Enjolras remained where he was, conflicted and unsure.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asked, if purely for the sake of stalling. Every cell in his brain was screaming at him to go back and find Courfeyrac and the others, to stand his ground in the fight no matter what the consequences were - but then there was this man, who could prove to either be on their side or extremely dangerous.

"Bahorel," the man said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You helped me," Enjolras said. "I saw you at the demonstration."

Bahorel nodded, letting out a little huff of impatience as he seemed to realize Enjolras was not going to trust him yet. "It's stupid to stay outside. German patrols will be out soon, and they'll have heard about what's happening."

"I need to go back to help my friends," Enjolras said, still torn.

Bahorel shook his head. "I saw them get away. The Germans are just getting the people under control now - that's what the gunshots were. They're only scaring people away. If you go back now you'll just be arrested."

Enjolras let out a breath of relief, and for the first time in hours the worry of what was going to happen to them finally lifted at Bahorel's words.

"My name is Enjolras," he offered as he finally followed Bahorel into the inn together. It must have been the darkest place in Paris - the windows were so dingy and dirty not a speck of the day's remaining sunlight shone through, and the lights flickered on and off in the room. But it was quiet and mostly empty, and Enjolras felt a wave of calm wash over him at the sudden peace.

"What are we doing here?"

"I like it here," Bahorel declared. "We don't have to worry about spies or German ears here, either." The look that he gave Enjolras seemed to be challenging him, and Enjolras held his intense gaze another moment before breaking into a small smile.

Enjolras hummed a little in agreement at that. "Now really, who are you?"

"Someone who hates the Germans and wants to do something about it, same as you."

Enjolras was a little taken aback by his openness - he hadn't heard any such rebelliousness from someone outside their small Resistance cell for months.

"So you want to join us?" Enjolras asked, understanding finally dawning on him.

Bahorel nodded with that same intimidating smile. Just then, his attention was taken up by the inn owner who had suddenly materialized, and Enjolras waited as he ordered some coffee.

"Coffee here will be the same as our own rations," Enjolras said in amusement.

"Chicory," Bahorel muttered in disgust. Then he shrugged. "Better than nothing." A sudden fire appeared in his eyes. "Actually, no, it's not. None of this is. Better to be free and starving than groveling for German scraps."

Enjolras nodded with satisfaction, feeling a small rush of excitement at Bahorel's words. They _had_ succeeded, then; one new recruit to the Resistance made all the difference.

Enjolras glanced at his watch, and saw that it was only an hour till curfew. "I need to go make sure everything's alright with the others." A sudden thought occurred to him. "I can't stay at my apartment tonight - when Jean-Claude forged those ration tickets last week they searched his house that same night."

"Stay with me," Bahorel said with a beam. "According to the papers, Jean-Claude was lucky enough to get off with a few nights in jail, but I doubt you'd be with all the glorious chaos you've caused." He laughed loudly at that, and Enjolras frowned.

"I have to know my friends are alright. If they really are, like you said, they'll be waiting at Courfeyrac's apartment; it's where we agreed to meet after the demonstration."

Bahorel nodded and jumped up from his seat in time to get his so-called coffee from the hands of the startled inn owner. Downing the thick black concoction in a flash, he pulled Enjolras to his feet and grasped his shoulder in his strong hand. "Let's go, then."

* * *

It had been dark for a while by the time they reached Courfeyrac's place. Enjolras and Bahorel had avoided the Champs-Élysées route in case there was still German activity there, but Enjolras had felt his curiosity gnaw at him all the same for it as they crossed by a different street. Was Paris disturbed by their actions? Would the people remember this day, or did most not even realize what had happened at all?

Paris was quiet now, with most everybody shut back up in their homes to wait for the next day to come. The streets were nearly pitch-black, another benefit to German occupation: electricity conservation. Enjolras' heart stopped for a beat upon seeing Courfeyrac's door open.

Pushing ahead of Bahorel, Enjolras crossed the remaining length of the hall and stepped inside Courfeyrac's apartment. It was empty and dark, and there was no evidence Courfeyrac had ever returned at all.

"Fucking hell -"

Enjolras whirled around at Bahorel's shout and nearly fell at the sight of Pierre blinking up at him from a chair in the dark.

As Bahorel flicked a lighter on, Pierre squinted and rose from the chair, shaking as he did so. Enjolras put an arm out to steady him, his heart beating so loudly he felt it in his ears.

"Pierre, what happened?"

The boy opened his mouth, but clearly struggled to speak. Enjolras led him to one of Courfeyrac's overindulgent comfortable armchairs, where Pierre sat and buried his face in his hands. Enjolras and Bahorel exchanged looks of awkwardness until Bahorel tentatively placed a huge hand on Pierre's shoulder.

"Talk," he ordered.

Pierre finally looked up and met Enjolras' eyes. Enjolras was suddenly afraid he wouldn't be able to take whatever had happened.

"Everyone's safe, they got out alright," Pierre said. "I came here to wait for you to tell you."

Enjolras sighed, unable to keep the annoyance at Pierre's dramatics from creeping into his voice. "What's wrong, then?"

Pierre shook his head and stared down at his hands. "No one knows what's happened, but - Courfeyrac's missing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know what happened in the student demonstration of 1940; there's a memorial plaque in the Arc de Triomphe for the students, but no record of whether it was a violent protest or whether anyone was killed. Additionally, German officers at the beginning of the Occupation were keen on getting on the good side of the French people, so the likelihood of the students dying is still debatable for me. For the story's sake, this is where we're going with it. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just changed the rating to "Mature" because after further study of AO3 rating guidelines, I thought it was better for the violent content in future chapters.
> 
> Also, the last chapter has been modified a little (the first few paragraphs) because somehow in editing I left out a few sentences??? Anyway, it's probably best to go back to that (concerning Courf's "recruit" from Chapter 2).

_December, 1940_

Weeks later, Courfeyrac was still missing. 

They were weeks of agony for Enjolras. He’d been entreated by the others in the group to stay home and ride out the anger they’d stirred in the Germans. But he couldn’t. Enjolras couldn’t sit still, safe at home, when Courfeyrac’s whereabouts and safety had not been confirmed. He kept attending his classes and he kept delivering anti-Nazi pamphlets. The thought of Courfeyrac plagued his mind constantly, and for the first time in his life Enjolras understood firsthand what it was to have something so precious at stake in wartime as one’s friend. 

Though he tried to pretend otherwise, things had changed. His professors seemed to see right through him whenever he entered a classroom, and nearly every single one of his fellow classmates followed their suit. These were the very people with whom Enjolras had engaged in fiery debates (and defeated, it should be noted) and seen everyday. He _knew_ them, whether he had gotten along with them or not. Now they wouldn’t dare meet his eyes. It was as though they were afraid that any moment might bring a squad of German officers to interrupt their classes and arrest them for association with Enjolras.

There was no doubt about it now that the action taken at the Arc de Triomphe would not be forgotten. It would not be forgiven. Everywhere he went, it seemed, Enjolras was being watched, baited. He’d long stopped lingering too long at German-frequented areas, even for delivering the pamphlets; too many times he’d turned around to see foreign and cold eyes on him. Enjolras had the chilling sense that something was coming for him, but he neither knew what it was nor when it was coming. 

Yet it wasn’t for his own safety Enjolras was worried. It was Courfeyrac’s. For all he knew, Courfeyrac was dead. In all likelihood he had been taken into German custody and shot, and was now rotting somewhere in a ditch in a field. Perhaps he wasn’t even in France anymore - there were new reports every day from the BBC concerning the labor camps to which the Germans had been sending Poles - the Death Camps, they were being called. What if Courfeyrac had been sent to one of them? Or maybe Courfeyrac was here, hidden somewhere in Paris, being tortured for information about the Resistance. It was impossible to keep every new possibility at bay, and Enjolras felt his despair dash the former hopes he’d entertained in days past.

He had failed Courfeyrac. He had failed his friend. That, above all else, was what kept Enjolras awake at night. He had promised so many times, _Everything will be alright. We will win._ So many times Enjolras had blown on the flame of Courfeyrac’s hatred and anger towards the Germans in order to direct it to their cause. And now Courfeyrac was suffering for it.

Enjolras’ apartment had stopped being a home to him long ago; first with the absence of Combeferre, and now with the knowledge that Courfeyrac might never come knocking round again. It was with the excuse of making it harder to be detected by the Germans that Enjolras took Bahorel up on his offer to stay with him. In truth, it was because Enjolras simply couldn’t stand the emptiness. 

“We’re going out,” Bahorel declared one day, more than three weeks after the incident at the Arc de Triomphe. 

Enjolras didn’t look up from his law textbook, which he had been staring at unproductively for going on three hours. “No thank you.” 

Bahorel laughed a rumbling laugh that felt as though it were shaking the foundations of the room. “You already said yes.”

Enjolras raised his head suspiciously. “I did no such thing.”

“You’re in my debt for saving your skinny ass at the protest,” Bahorel reminded him smugly, squashing Enjolras’ hat on his head for him. Enjolras sent him a withering stare, but decided against further resistance. Bahorel was right, after all.

Enjolras sighed, already standing up to fetch his coat. “Will it be dangerous?”

Bahorel beamed. “I don’t make any promises.” 

* * *

Enjolras hadn’t known what exactly to expect. This hadn’t been it.

“Why are we here?” He asked Bahorel impatiently. With the short days of winter approaching, the sky was already darkening at what was barely past noon. Enjolras shivered and longed for a scarf to soothe his wind-bitten, reddened cheeks. Enjolras surveyed what was once a small restaurant, but now was hardly more than a boarded up shack covered in weather-worn and nearly unreadable German-issued notices. The white paint was peeling from a sign above the main window, but the name of the place emblazoned in swirling black letters could still be read - _Corinthe._ The occupants of this place had been gone for a long time.

“It’s quiet around here.”

“Why would _you_ want quiet?” 

Bahorel laughed at that and shook his head, saying, "You said the Musain's been patrolled by Germans this week, so I found us a new meeting place for this week." He tossed his wild mane in fixed concentration as he approached the door and knocked a peculiarly specific pattern on it. Rolling his eyes, Enjolras was about to comment on the absurdity of Bahorel’s expectation of any reply until he saw Bahorel’s raised fist, ready to smash through one of the windows of the restaurant.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Enjolras hissed, grabbing Bahorel’s arm and looking around at the empty street before pulling Bahorel back. Bahorel waved him off.

“We’re the first ones here. Someone has to do it.” 

Enjolras gave him a bewildered look as he pointed to the window. Upon closer inspection, it was clear it was already open by a slight sliver. “It’s not even locked.”

Bahorel opened his mouth and abruptly closed it as he looked at the window. “Good eye,” he said reluctantly, sounding almost disappointed as he jiggled the window open. Enjolras winced as it squealed from lack of use. 

As Bahorel battled with the task of reaching the lock from inside, curiosity settled in Enjolras’ mind. Bahorel was still a strange character for him to understand - his immediate loyalty and dedication to Enjolras’ cause and ideals, his personality, at once reckless and irresponsible yet somehow completely aware - all of this was new to Enjolras. He wondered how deep Bahorel’s motivations went. 

The door swung open with a loud groan, startling Enjolras. He lingered at the doorway as he watched Bahorel shuffle into the dark room of the restaurant, in which Enjolras could just barely make out the outlines of a counter and glass display. Most of the furniture had been cleared out so that only the built-in essentials of the kitchen remained. Bahorel was swallowed up in the darkness of the place, and, uneasy with the sudden silence, Enjolras hurriedly followed, carefully closing the door behind him. Enjolras blinked, struggling to see in the dark, until a moment later Enjolras heard the flick of a switch and light filled the room. 

The sound of scratching on wood made Enjolras snap to attention as he inspected the darker corners of the room, undeniably a little cautious of somebody else in the room with them. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched a rat the size of a small terrier scurry across the room. He wondered with more than a little impatience what it was Bahorel thought they could accomplish here. 

Where _was_ Bahorel?

Bahorel had stationed himself in front of the large display case in a corner of the restaurant. The glass windows were covered in a layer of dust inches thick, but upon further inspection Enjolras saw they still contained a few pastries, somehow untouched by the rats. Bahorel must have noticed as well, because he pointed to them with a grin. 

“They must be oatmeal raisin. Even the rats didn’t touch them.” 

Enjolras shook his head at the joke, looking away to hide the small smile he couldn’t resist. He imagined what Courfeyrac would say - he would have been sure to appreciate Bahorel’s humor. Enjolras imagined how well Courfeyrac and Bahorel would get on - 

He stopped himself before his thoughts could return to places that had haunted him for the past few weeks. 

Bahorel didn’t seem to have noticed. He swirled a little dusting of flour on the counter with his finger, inspecting it and smelling it. “Potato flour,” he remarked approvingly, cheerfully licking his finger a moment later. 

“How would you know that?” Enjolras asked him, surprised and a little disgusted. The flour on the counter looked the same as any flour he had ever seen used, besides being less _clean_. Bahorel grinned, but after the brief weeks of their acquaintance Enjolras could tell it wasn’t quite so enthusiastic as usual. 

There was a long pause before Bahorel filled the silence with an affectionate comment that seemed to be a musing to himself, “My parents used to own a bakery. I always wanted to have one myself. Still would, maybe, if this war is ever over.” 

Enjolras nodded, unsure of what to say. His contributions weren’t necessary, however. Bahorel was oblivious to Enjolras’ awkwardness and returned to some one-sided enthusiastic conversation about some bar fight last week.

“Why are we here?” Enjolras asked again.

“Like I said, we’re waiting. Christ, man, a pretty face isn’t enough if you can’t sit still for more than a minute.”

Enjolras let the comment slide. He’d learned quickly that Bahorel’s tongue was uncensored and brash but well-meaning; Enjolras _would_ have liked to point out that he could very well be patient, and it was Bahorel who was pacing around with the anxiety of troops preparing to go into battle. Instead, with a silent sigh, Enjolras picked up an overturned step stool from behind the counter and seated himself, deciding that that would be the end to any questions put to Bahorel.

There was a knock at the door.

As Bahorel jumped up to open it, Enjolras crossed his arms, still wary of Bahorel’s plans in bringing him here. When a familiar face came into view, Enjolras rose from his seat with a cry of outrage.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” the newcomer replied, slipping into the dingy room gracelessly. Whether he was inebriated or not was, strangely, difficult to tell. Grantaire’s face was flushed, yet his eyes were clear and alert. His greasy mop of dark curls obscured part of his face, thankfully concealing the sardonic grin that no doubt would have infuriated Enjolras to every end, and he immediately found a wall to slouch against. 

Enjolras whipped his head towards Bahorel, who was already talking about something to Grantaire, making wild, excited gestures. Enjolras tried to focus on the words passing between the two of them, but the only thing he could hear was the sarcastic laugh of Grantaire filling the room.

Enjolras crossed the room in what felt like one step and pushed Bahorel out of the way, slamming Grantaire’s back against the wall with all the strength he had in his body. Grantaire put up no fight, but his dark eyes stared coolly back at him, and the smile he’d been hiding now flashed to goad Enjolras. 

“Why are you here, you blackguard?” Enjolras’ voice was low and fiercer than it had ever been. Looking at Grantaire’s untroubled face, Enjolras felt his face grow hot at the drunkard’s nerve in coming here. It was easy enough for Enjolras to avoid conflict with Grantaire when they weren’t in the same room - but here, now, Enjolras knew there was no way he could avoid this confrontation. 

“Bahorel told me you need my help,” Grantaire said, his eyes never shifting or breaking Enjolras’ gaze. It annoyed Enjolras; Grantaire showed no indication of even bothering to put up a fight. The look in his eyes, rather than challenging, was gentle and patient. Enjolras just then thought about how easy it would be for Grantaire to overpower him, to push him aside; the latter, though shorter, was broad and well-built, strong in comparison to Enjolras’ tall but unintimidating lithe figure. 

“Enjolras,” Bahorel said impatiently, moving to help Grantaire, “Grantaire can help with Courfeyrac -” 

Enjolras turned to Bahorel sharply, his hands still on Grantaire’s collar. “Don’t. This man is a traitor, a German collaborator who’s turned his back on his country. You don’t know what he’s done. How did you even know him and where to find him?”

Bahorel answered, "I know a lot of people."

Grantaire let out a little laugh and addressed Enjolras, “Happening to be in the same place as a German in a bar on occasion is an offense that warrants this violence now?” 

“The fact that you did not leave immediately from the insult of a German officer entering a Parisian bar alone is bad enough,” Enjolras said as he shook his head. “But you know that's not all.”

Grantaire stared at him, holding his arms out in a questioning gesture. “What have I done to deserve your ill will beyond enjoying a drink?”

It was then Bahorel intervened, picking Enjolras up and away from Grantaire, who slumped against the wall again in relief. Enjolras twisted around furiously, pounding Bahorel’s back with his fists, and fell out of Bahorel’s hold.

Bahorel didn’t seem the least disturbed by Enjolras’ violence. He waited till Grantaire had cleared away at a safe distance before setting Enjolras down. 

Burning with anger and humiliation, Enjolras brushed himself off and was about to storm out of the restaurant until Grantaire said, “Give me a chance to explain.”

It nagged at Enjolras, it did. Every fiber in his body screamed at him with indignation, pointing out the obvious. _A traitor gets no second chances._ And that was what Enjolras believed, wasn’t it?

Except…

Except maybe he didn’t know the whole story. Enjolras’ doubt did not waver on what could only be Grantaire’s ill will. He had proof on that account; but he decided he’d listen to Grantaire first before kicking him out. Grantaire possessed knowledge that he could use to deliver Enjoras into German hands immediately - it was better to hear what Grantaire had to say first. However, that didn't make the conclusion any easier to come to.

Enjolras sent one more pointed glare in Bahorel’s direction for the indignity he had suffered before turning to Grantaire. “Tell me, then. You say you can tell us something about Courfeyrac. Lie to me, you drunkard, and I promise it won’t be the war that finishes you off.”

Gantaire didn’t bat an eye at the threat. “Of course.” He hesitated before continuing, almost as though he was actually ashamed. Enjolras refused to soften. “What is that terrible thing you believe I've done?”

Contempt rose like bile in Enjolras’ throat. “You were responsible for Marie Blanche’s arrest. Everybody knows what you did.”

Grantaire stared back at him. “You mean the restaurant owner's daughter?” He looked around the room, and his expression turned to one of understanding. “ _This_ restaurant owner's daughter. Well, you’re wrong about that. What is it you think happened?”

Enjolras scoffed impatiently. “You got her family into trouble with the Germans for their involvement in the black market in exchange for a few drinks. There have been more, too - and every time someone else is arrested, you always seem to be enjoying luxuries denied to the rest of Paris.”

“I’m not an informer,” Grantaire said, a hint of anger in his voice.

“And you just happened to be the only Parisian who can afford those drinks and food?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I didn’t betray her family for the black market deals. _I_ work with the black markets too,” Grantaire said, “I’m one of the middlemen, on occasion. Informing wouldn’t do me much good, would it? And,” he added with a short laugh, “if the occasional bottle finds its way into my own hands, well, that is not my fault. You might even say I’m also serving Paris - in my way.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can prove it to you when the next shipment comes,” Grantaire said with a shrug, slipping something discreetly out of his pocket. Enjolras glared at him as Grantaire removed a flask and helped himself to a swig.

“And Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked reluctantly. “You said you can do something for him.”

“Yes.” Grantaire’s smile failed to conceal a touch of smugness at Enjolras’ ask for help. “Then you know I sometimes drink with the Germans in the bars,” Grantaire began. Enjolras bristled at the reminder, but Grantaire resumed, “Well, I hear them talk. For some reason or other, they aren’t as cautious in bars, especially when they’ve had a drink or two. While it _is_ true I tend to allow myself a treat here and there -”

“Don’t stall.”

Grantaire mocked offense. “I’d never. As I was saying, I’m not _always_ drunk. But sometimes my charmingly outgoing personality seems to suggest to them that I am.”

_Obnoxiously intolerable personality,_ Enjolras corrected him silently.

“So what you’re saying is…”

“I hear things, Enjolras. Useful things, too. It’s _why_ I drink with them.” Grantaire paused. “Well, that, and they do have a fine Burgogne specimen. That’s hard to come by these days.”

“See! You’d sell your country for a drink,” Enjolras snarled, back on the defensive. “You disgust me.”

Grantaire straightened and settled a stare as hard as flint on Enjolras. “Do I? _You_ are just what the Germans want, you know. Blond, blue-eyed, _beautiful_ Aryan marble that you are. Maybe that’s why they’ve left you alone. You would have been arrested right with Courfeyrac otherwise - I’ll bet they want to recruit you for their master race plan. You’re a fine candidate for it.”

Before Enjolras had the chance to react, Bahorel did the job for him and knocked his fist across Grantaire’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. Bahorel stooped down and picked Grantaire up by his shirt then and held him against the wall. “Sorry,” he said, the sincere lightness of his tone surprising Enjolras, “but you were asking for it. Apologize and stop messing around, Grantaire, or I’ll let Enjolras loose on you.” 

Breathing hard, Grantaire nodded, wincing and raising his hand to his jaw and rubbing it as he muttered something under his breath. Bahorel stood tactfully between Enjolras and Grantaire, ready for any move Enjolras might attempt to make. 

“Continue,” Enjolras said coldly, clenching his fists to stop them from shaking with the anger he felt for the situation building up. He noted with satisfaction a purple bruise already forming on Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire smiled at him and, through gritted teeth, said, “As you wish. Besides the occasional drink with the Germans, well, I’ve curated a collection of wine I’ve collected in my apartment for the last year. The Germans will be on rations too, though not like we are, so the lower-ranking ones are always happy to loosen their tongues for an extra bottle or two. Yesterday I heard one of them mention the November protest, and one of the leaders who they’d taken away.” 

Enjolras’ stomach somersaulted and, for the first time in weeks, he felt hope spread in his chest. “So you can get one of them to talk about what happened to him?”

Grantaire nodded. “Some of those young German boys are absurdly friendly. Most of them are too stupid to even realize there’s a war going on. They’ve asked me, ‘How’s your sweetheart?’ ‘Did you see Arlette-Leonie at the cinema last weekend?’ They're praising our actresses and our people for our art and culture, all while they’re murdering Poles and sending Jews packing.”

Enjolras didn’t know at what part of the short speech he found himself agreeing with Grantaire, but he shook himself off before it went any further. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to remain diplomatic. To his surprise and chagrin, he was finding it a little easier by the minute to resist landing a punch of his own on Grantaire’s other cheek. 

“So you’ll try?”

Grantaire nodded. Enjolras suddenly felt frustration tug at him again. “What do you want?”

Grantaire stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“What do you want in return? Rations?” Enjolras asked exasperatedly. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something about this was wrong. Enjolras was then seized with terror at the thought of what Grantaire would be holding over them - he might go immediately to report Enjolras and the others. He might already be an informer working against them on the Germans’ side, and this was his way of getting them to trust him - 

“I don’t _want_ anything for it,” Grantaire said, hurt in his eyes. “I want to help, same as you. I don’t see why that’s so hard to understand.”

“You know why,” Enjolras said quietly, but his voice wavered now. He wasn’t _sure_ anymore. “I don’t know how we can trust you again.”

“You will see,” Grantaire replied, a new air of gravity in his voice. With a nod to Enjolras and a half-hearted glare at Bahorel, Grantaire was gone. 

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

_ January, 1940 _

It was the first time in nearly ten years that Enjolras passed the holidays without Courfeyrac or Combeferre. Christmas was easy to get over - both of his friends had always spent most of their time with their respective families, and Enjolras had his. New Year's Eve had been a tradition between the three of them, though. It was never much when they celebrated, nothing any of them except Courfeyrac _really_ looked forward to. Enjolras complained of the headaches the loud cheering and singing from the streets gave him, and Combeferre could never resist pointing out the increase in hospital cases that resulted from the drunken antics of wild partygoers. For friendship’s sake, Combeferre and Enjolras allowed Courfeyrac to pour them a celebratory glass of wine at midnight, but always declined Courfeyrac’s long list of parties at his favorite clubs to attend. Courfeyrac, being the good friend that he was, always spent the moments before midnight with them, though he had no qualms about making them feel guilty for it. 

“I could be out with a girl right now, you know,” Courfeyrac would complain every year without fail. At that point in the night the three of them would be sitting on the floor, leaning against the ratty couch in Enjolras' apartment and arguing about what station to play on the radio. 

And every year Enjolras and Combeferre would lean into Courfeyrac from either side, smiling. “But you’re not. You’re with us.”

Enjolras had never looked forward to New Year’s. But then, he’d never had to endure it alone.

Early that morning he’d left his and Bahorel’s apartment to retrieve some things he’d forgotten in his old one - the one he still hadn’t brought himself to let go of, despite the danger he knew it might put him in. He’d gone with the excuse of gathering the rest of his law books, but even though he didn’t like the idea of spending the day alone, Enjolras didn’t think he could take being in the same room as Bahorel when he brought over his girl, who seemed to always be laughing about something; more often than not, Enjolras got the sense that he was the butt of those inside jokes between Bahorel and his sweetheart. So he’d gone, with every intention of staying the night. Then, he told himself, he would tell the landlord he was officially moved out. Just not today.

Enjolras paced the floor, hearing the accusatory voices of his friends with each stride. Courfeyrac, Combeferre - they’d relied on him, trusted their lives to his hands. Without Enjolras, Combeferre would have no inside source within Paris to aid the British. Without Courfeyrac’s presence and help to lighten his load, Enjolras felt crushed by an unbearable weight that would not let him move forward.

So he paced, and paced, and paced. What had before been an exercise used to clear his mind and solve problems was now a comfort, for the moment he stopped moving the accusations settled in his mind again and drove him to a hot, angry frustration. With every step he knew that what he was doing was wrong, was not who he was supposed to be. He was supposed to have his friends by his side, to help him when his burden proved too much. Over and over again Enjolras told himself that if he could only bring Courfeyrac back, everything else would fall into place. Everything would be better. Only then would he move forward.

A shout coming from outside was the only thing to break him from his reverie. Enjolras stopped in his tracks, all his senses suddenly sharpening and focusing on the sound, taking only a second to process what it meant. Likely a group of Germans off-duty and already drunk, heading to a club. Enjolras took a step toward his window to catch a glimpse of the scene happening below anyway. 

A man in a German uniform was shouting in a mix of rapid-fire German and broken French, gesticulating wildly with a bat he held in his gloved hand. A boy no older than twelve was being held with one of the man’s hands, and was struggling to break free. No, he was  _ reaching  _ \- reaching for something on the ground a few inches away from the German’s feet. The distinct stamps and markings of identification papers were visible to Enjolras even from the distance at which he was standing. Enjolras’ breath hitched as he thought of what would happen to the boy without his papers. He might be taken to one of the many German headquarters and detained, or perhaps he might only be let off without a warning - considering the German’s aggressive hold of the boy, however, that seemed unlikely. 

In the next moment Enjolras was dashing down the stairs of the apartment building, finding himself on the icy pavement and just a few feet away from the German. Enjolras hastily plucked the boy’s papers from the ground, and the German turned around to look at him at the sound of the rustling papers. 

If he recognized Enjolras from the November demonstration or one of the ration raids, one of the half dozen Nazi patrols on the street would be called to restrain him within moments. If he recognized Enjolras, all was lost. For him, for his friends.

The German met his eyes, and in that moment Enjolras braced himself for the orders of arrest. But they didn’t come. 

“Are these your papers?” Enjolras addressed the boy calmly, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the German. As the boy nodded and snatched them with a triumphant laugh, the German’s attention focused on Enjolras after sending a blow to the back of the boy’s head in frustration. The boy was already running off, shouting expletives that were on a level of French too advanced for the German to understand. 

“French citizens cannot interfere in Sergeant Müller’s official business,” the German spat, stepping closer to Enjolras and pushing him back with the end of his bat. “Papers, please.” 

Enjolras could have laughed at hearing the German refer to himself in the third-person were it not for the cold biting his hands and breaking through the thin pullover he wore. The image of the man, who towered an inch or two even over Enjolras, barking orders in broken French, was almost absurd. Enjolras forced himself to withdraw his identification papers, controlling the invisible tremor he felt in his hands. If  Müller  did not know who he was before, he would now have his name. This meeting would be recorded, filed, and made note of. 

Seconds passed, then a minute, then two minutes. Still  Müller was slowly scanning the papers in front of him, constantly flicking his eyes from the grainy black-and-white identification photo to Enjolras, as though needing assurance that Enjolras hadn’t changed shape or face since the last time he’d checked. 

Those minutes passed and finally,  _ finally _ ,  Müller handed Enjolras his papers, letting some of them fall to the ground to be steeped in the damp from the snow. Enjolras barely controlled his hand from forming a fist as he crouched down to rescue his documents.  _ Stay undercover,  _ he repeated over and over again in his mind.  _ Compliant on the outside.  _

“Be sure to be home before curfew,” the German said, his lower lip curling upward smugly. “You French can celebrate another year of German Paris _indoors_.” He raised his arm and bade Enjolras a passionate “ _ Heil Hitler!”  _ before dismissing him. Enjolras remained where he was, silently watching as  Müller turned briskly on his heels to target a man lingering outside a restaurant. Only then did Enjolras begin to pick his way back  slowly to his apartment, turning only once, and discreetly, to see  Müller watching him. 

* * *

It was a week later that the first member of Enjolras’ resistance cell disappeared. 

Three days after that, another was gone. The sudden smallness of the group was noticed by all at the most recent meetings called by Enjolras. It didn’t take long for them to realize that they were being targeted for their resistance activities.

Neither of the first two returned within the next week either, and Enjolras knew something needed to be done before more of them were compromised. 

“Cancel tomorrow’s meeting,” Enjolras said to Bahorel early one morning, nudging Bahorel’s sleeping bulky form ,“and tell everyone we’re meeting today at the Corinthe instead. The German patrols have been passing the Musain more frequently this week, and we need to find a way to keep working without being compromised as soon as possible.”

Bahorel didn’t stir from his position in his bed. Enjolras nudged him again, this time with perhaps a little more force than was necessary. He was forced to duck half a second later as one of Bahorel’s fists shot out from his blanket in defense.

“For crying out loud, Enjolras…” Bahorel muttered a sleepy string of curses as he rolled over to face Enjolras. His eyes were closed, but Enjolras felt a wave of uneasiness at the vengeful expression on Bahorel’s face. “What time is it?”

“Six o’clock,” Enjolras said coolly. “We have work to do.”

Bahorel let out an almost animal-like roar at Enjolras’ words. “Any business before noon is  _ your _ business.”

Enjolras debated giving up for a moment, but the thought of seeing the others in his resistance cell to give them anything other than news of their missing friends’ whereabouts was too difficult, and he still needed time to figure out just  _ how  _ he was supposed to solve their problems. So something in him finally snapped as with one swift, vigorous movement, he wrenched the blanket out from under Bahorel, sending him crashing to the floor. 

“Go. Now,” he said, a tinge of coldness seeping into his voice as he crossed his arms. As Bahorel stood, shaking himself off and rolling his shoulders out as though preparing for a brawl, Enjolras braced himself.

Bahorel just yawned. “Feisty. I like it.” He rolled out a crick in his neck, which was fixed with a loud crack that made Enjolras cringe. “No need to snap your cap. What time?”

Enjolras released a breath in partial relief, and rolled his eyes at Bahorel’s demonstrative stretching. “Three, as always.” He suddenly caught sight of another person-shaped lump on Bahorel’s bed, covered with an unreasonable amount of blankets. “Is your  _ girl  _ here?” He asked in a suddenly hushed tone, averting his eyes from the bed and casting Bahorel an accusatory look. 

Bahorel was tugging on a pair of trousers. “No, that’s my black market dealer. You know, I think what I miss most about life before the war was uninterrupted sleep.” The lump in the bed let out a muffled laugh, and Enjolras turned away to return to his room.

Enjolras settled himself down at his desk to prepare for the meeting. Something about the action felt weighty, as though something were pressing down upon his shoulders to act, to produce something. The thought of standing up again without a solution nearly made him nauseous. 

If he could just reach inside his mind and  _ think,  _ get in that space of ideas and focus that he’d found before when puzzling over difficult problems with Combeferre or Courfeyrac - they’d always known the right things to say, or provided the missing pieces to Enjolras’ half-formed ideas. Having denied it during the months of Combeferre’s leave and Courfyrac’s disappearance, Enjolras realized just how dependent he’d been on them for more than friendship and comfort. 

Bahorel followed and chatted loudly behind him as he continued dressing and, what Enjolras instinctively guessed, examining his bed head in Enjolras' cracked bathroom mirror with an expression of agony. 

“As I was saying last night, that food supply you said the Germans are sending out of Paris next week - Pierre thinks he’s found a few more who are willing to help sabotage it. The kid’s rather eager, but he’s not half-bad.” Bahorel positioned himself in Enjolras’ line of vision and smiled so widely that Enjolras could see his back row of teeth. “Gives me plenty of stories, too. Pierre’s brother - you know, the scrawny one from Nice? - has a  _ thing  _ for one of those German girls. Says he likes their appetites. God, I miss food.”

Enjolras kept his eyes trained on the single blank paper in front of him, willing for words to appear on it and for Bahorel to disappear. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll be on my way. Maybe I can get a front-row seat watching Pierre’s brother follow his German birdie around, seeing as that’s the only entertainment I’m allowed these days. It’s funny, you know -” Bahorel said, disappearing under Enjolras' nightstand to fetch a fedora and snatching the apartment key from the nail on the wall. “- the way he follows her around from cafe to cafe. Pierre says he’s dragged him along everywhere so they don’t look  _ suspicious _ , as if two men following a German sausage is better than one. By the way, I was feeling peckish last night, so you won’t be finding the egg rations. Might as well bring Grantaire to the meeting to pull some black market strings, eh?”

Bahorel must have been anticipating Enjolras’ scowl as his cue, because at that he finished adjusting his coat and waved, disappearing through the door. As the door clicked shut behind Bahorel, Enjolras bolted upright in his seat and picked up his pen. 

He knew what to do.

* * *

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Pierre said. The meeting had started; all members were in attendance, and Enjolras was trying to silence Bahorel’s mock-outrage at Pierre’s comment. 

“That’s what makes it so brilliant,” Bahorel explained, winking at Enjolras, “unless you have something better to offer?”

“I’m glad you like it,” Enjolras addressed Bahorel drily, “since I got the idea from you.”

Pierre groaned loudly. “ _ Him _ ? We take ideas from the behemoth now?” A couple of the other members sniggered in the background, earning them a thump on the head from Bahorel, who didn’t even need to look away from Enjolras. 

Enjolras tried to contain a sigh. “Bahorel was telling me about Pierre’s brother and how they followed that German girl, how they put on the  _ pretense  _ of being there for each other instead of for the girl, such as going around town together to avoid being conspicuous. They -”

“What are you talking about? You told him?” Pierre looked angrily at Bahorel, who patted him on the head and silenced him by putting a finger to his lips. 

“Let the man speak, Pierre.” 

Enjolras nodded. “As I was  _ saying _ \- that’s what we need to do, at least in theory. We should split up the group. Information that we usually share in these big meetings can be passed along by the smaller groups to each other so the chances of being caught are slimmer. Two or three men walking the streets and into a cafe is far less suspicious than nearly a dozen all at once. We’ll start using more code and use our men from the underground newspapers so we don’t have to meet each other as often.”

All fell silent, even Bahorel, as they let Enjolras’ explanation sink in. Then they turned to each other, murmuring amongst themselves, and Enjolras released a breath as he took a step back to let them converse. In the course of the minutes that passed, the entrance of the room was opened discreetly, almost going unnoticed by Enjolras - but the unmistakable greasy mop of dark hair was impossible to miss. He watched with guarded eyes as Grantaire signalled Bahorel from the farthest corner of the room, then handed him a thick stack of creased and folded papers. He must have felt Enjolras’ gaze, because he looked up - just for a second - before saying something to Bahorel and slipping away out the door again. 

Enjolras stared at the spot where Grantaire had been, feeling the sudden return of that weight on his shoulders as his thoughts began running uncontrolled in his mind, thoughts of Courfeyrac and  _ news of Courfeyrac  _ and the mortifying fact that at the moment, receiving news from Grantaire of all people felt like the most important thing in the world. 

Enjolras was on his way to reach Bahorel when Pierre appeared in his way, his wide and child-like eyes set in an unusually hard and determined expression. “I thought you should know that - that I was going to tell you I’m leaving.”

Enjolras’ breath halted in his chest as he allowed his thoughts of Grantaire and Courfeyrac to be pushed aside. His mouth went dry for a moment as his mind raced to catch up to Pierre's words. “Leaving? As in leaving the resistance?”

Pierre nodded, showing none of his habitual signs of nervousness except for his discreet worrying of a frayed thread on the bottom of his coat. “I was going to leave because, well, I have my sister to take care of at home, and I promised her - I promised her I wouldn’t disappear like the others did.” As Pierre’s words set in, Enjolras felt a flash of annoyance immediately followed by one of guilt and understanding. 

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras said slowly, “you do have your family to think of. The decision is ultimately yours to make, which I accept, though I do wish you’d reconsider. We’re so close, Pierre, so close - haven’t you noticed how worried the Germans have been getting? That’s a  _ good  _ thing, and now that we have a plan to be more careful -”

“Enjolras,” Pierre interrupted, his voice now a little meeker and sounding more than a touch relieved, “thank you, but I do want to stay, at least now that you have a new way to keep us safe. My grandfather thinks I'm a fool, you know, and thinks that we can wait out the Germans and the war.” Pierre shook his head with a lopsided smile. "This way we can fight for Paris and our families, right?"

Enjolras smiled a little, feeling the heaviness ease up a bit. “Right, though of course it’s still dangerous. All of this. The plan is only short-term before we move on to bigger things…” 

“Yes, I know,” Pierre said, already beginning to pull himself away. He met Enjolras’ eyes one last time. “Promise you won’t let me disappear.”

Feeling his throat suddenly constricting, Enjolras hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding briefly. “I promise.”

Pierre beamed, and bounced off to rejoin the others. Enjolras watched him go, as though for that moment suspended in time as he only then remembered just how painfully  _ young  _ Pierre was - seventeen. Seventeen and already eager to fight for his country’s freedom and to take on responsibility for his family. At seventeen all Enjolras had had to worry about was achieving high marks in school and avoiding the hostile students on campus.

Enjolras felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around with a start. 

Bahorel nudged him urgently, removing one of the papers Enjolras had seen Grantaire pass on from his trousers’ pocket and handing it to Enjolras. 

“Is it…?” 

“It’s news,” Bahorel nodded, but his mouth set in an uncharacteristically serious line. “News of Courfeyrac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK >:D 
> 
> me in the notes of like chapter 3: oh no i took 2 weeks to update i'm so sorry you guys dishonor on me 
> 
> me, taking literal months to find the mental/emotional strength to post chapter six: whoops 
> 
> A lot of personal stuff has happened in the last few months which made me really need to step back from writing this fic, but thanks to those who've still been reading! I don't think (?) I'll need to take a hiatus again as long as the last one, but from now on if it's been a while since I've updated and you want more info, feel free to look at my AO3 profile, because I'll start leaving updates about WIP progress there. And, since it's been asked, I promise that I don't plan on abandoning this fic anytime soon, no matter how long updates take. It's just a really really ambitious project that I don't want to rush. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: depiction of severe/violent PTSD episode
> 
> also, disclaimer: i can't attest to how accurately i've portrayed PTSD, since i haven't experienced it myself, but this depiction is based on veteran accounts and my interpretation for these characters in this situation.

It wasn’t the loud ring of Joly’s rotary telephone that woke him, or the repeated aggressive stomping from his upstairs neighbor voicing his frustration at the unanswered phone. Neither of these sounds reached his ears as he slept following a long evening of going through Enjolras’ history and medical records. Rather, it was the soft drizzling of the rain from outside, pattering at the window and in his ears like the footsteps of a miniature army marching in perfect unison, urging him to wake. 

When he did, the other sounds filling his apartment startled him, and he quickly rubbed away the sleepiness from his eyes as he stumbled out of bed, pulled on his yellow felt slippers, and made a clumsy dash for the telephone, picking it up and mumbling a brief, “Hello?” 

“Joly, this is Sister Simplice.” The young nurse’s usually quiet and unwavering voice was now shaky and high-pitched, and Joly could sense that she was out of breath through the phone. “You need to come to the hospital. Now.”

“Are you alright?” Joly asked, snapping to attention in his concern and beginning to rifle through his drawers and throw out his clothes on his bed. His hands and body felt like they were moving ahead of his mind; they were steady and collected as his mind raced with ideas of possible catastrophes. 

“No, no, I’m alright,” Simplice assured him, though she was not at all convincing. “Joly, it’s your patient - Enjolras. He’s -” 

“I’m coming.”

Joly dropped the phone, leaving it dangling by the line over the table and bolted for the door, disregarding the continued angry stomps from his upstairs neighbor and the fact that he had only fastened three of the buttons on his shirt, and especially his lack of a hat, which at any other time would mortify him to no end. He didn’t even think about the potential cold he might get from running late at night in the rain with his head exposed. 

He didn’t have time to think of those things now. He had to get to Enjolras. 

* * *

When Joly neared the wing of the hospital in which Enjolras was being kept, he immediately heard the sounds of a scuffle - shouting, swearing, frantic footsteps. Sounds which should not be coming from inside a wing of the hospital that was usually quiet at this time of night. His pulse quickened as he knew with a grim certainty that the nearer he came to the sounds of violence, the closer he was to Enjolras. As he finally caught sight of the scene his heart felt as though it had come to a complete stop. 

A team of nurses and doctors were crowded around Enjolras’ bed, trying to hold him down, and, Joly guessed, attempting to sedate him. In both endeavors, it seemed that they were failing. Though he couldn’t make Enjolras out amid the densely packed group of doctors and nurses around him, Joly saw the aftermath of Enjolras’ resistance. Nurses and doctors both were being thrust back, some falling to the floor, others only slowed for a moment before returning to the action. The heat rose to Joly’s cheeks as his feet stayed firmly planted to the floor, seething. 

“Joly!” Sister Simplice called out to him, her face white and drawn as she approached him. Her hair, usually completely covered by her white cornette, fell loose in places over her eyes, and it was the most disarrayed and disorderly that Joly had ever seen her. 

She cleared her throat. “He’s having an episode,” she told him in a low voice, glancing to the side where other patients were being moved farther away from Enjolras’ bed. “He woke up and was triggered by something, we don’t know what. This hasn’t happened in months, nearly, not since the first few weeks you were put on his case -” Sister Simplice hesitated briefly, her eyes falling on something behind Joly. “They’re trying to sedate him now, but somehow he’s so strong that no one can get close enough without hurting him. You’re the only one who’s ever gotten him to calm down when he’s like this.”

Joly thanked her quietly and made his way over to where the chaos was ensuing. A nurse caught sight of him and lit up with relief, and called for the others to depart. Joly didn’t stop to think about it too long, making a beeline for Enjolras’ side. Enjolras’ nightshirt was torn open, revealing his unhealed scars and some new bruises that Joly didn’t recall seeing earlier that night when he’d last left him, and the dressings on his injured hand had come clean off. His eyes were wide open but unseeing, staring far above the ceiling and aware of something terrible that Joly could not see. 

With the doctors and nurses now gone, Enjolras was still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest; he breathed heavily as though under great exertion, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. Joly pulled up his regular stool, which had been knocked to the floor a few yards away in all the frenzy. “Enjolras,” he said gently, keeping himself alert and ready to move should Enjolras choose to act out against him as well. He waited several tense, long seconds, afraid Enjolras would not recognize him. But then Enjolras’ heavy breathing was broken by another sound, and Joly realized he was crying. 

“I won’t go back, I can’t go back,” Enjolras whispered over and over again, the words slurring more with each repetition and welding into each other, interrupted only by his gasping sobs. Instinctively Joly moved closer but had to duck back the next second to just barely avoid a blow to his head. 

Joly moved closer but still kept a careful distance between him and Enjolras. He began to say what he did with all his other traumatized patients. “Enjolras, it’s Joly. Breathe, alright? Breathe. Whatever you see right now is not real. You’re in the Hôpital Lariboisière in Paris, France. Take deep breaths.” 

Enjolras seemed to hear him, and his breathing grew less short and strained, but Joly saw that he was about to jump from the bed. “Enjolras, tell me what you see in this room.” 

Enjolras’ gaze was still fixed on the ceiling, but in his restlessness he ceased moving for a moment and said in a hoarse whisper, “What?” 

“Tell me what you see,” Joly repeated firmly, “look around you and describe the people and things in the room.” 

Enjolras' voice was choked and quiet. “White. Everything is white.”

“That’s right,” Joly said encouragingly, “White. I’ve always thought we should have more color in here. What else?” 

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut before opening them, as if trying to dispel something sinister from his vision. “Nuns, beds, men in white coats…” he loosed a long breath in realization. “Doctors.”

“Yes,” Joly affirmed, feeling a rush of relief. “We’re in a hospital.”

“In Paris,” Enjolras said. 

“Yes.”

“In France.”

“Yes.”

Joly sat with Enjolras for an indeterminable length of time; it might have been seconds, minutes, or hours. Enjolras only lay there on his bed, his breathing gradually slowing. Around them the hospital quickly assumed its usual routine of business and order, and the familiar sounds of nurses chatting and equipment carts rolling by once again surrounded Joly. Joly continued his watch of Enjolras, immune to the rest of the world, unaware that his eyelids were beginning to droop and that he was close to dozing. 

“Joly?” 

Joly was alert the next moment. “I’m here,” he said, blinking hard to make the fuzzy edges in his vision go away. “I’m here, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras slowly turned his head towards him and slowly let out a long breath. His eyes were clear and aware now, and Joly could see the discomfort in them. “I - it’s over now. What you did - it helped.”

Joly couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared down at his hands, which were tugging at each other restlessly, a nervous habit he found himself returning to often these days. 

This was _his_ fault. Sister Simplice had said no one knew what Enjolras’ trigger was, but he did. He’d been keeping Enjolras up so many nights and making him relive the worst years of his life in minute detail. It didn’t matter that Enjolras agreed to do it every time and denied all of Joly’s offers to stop. Joly was responsible for Enjolras, and instead of helping him he was only making things worse. 

“Have them restrain me.”

Joly hadn’t been able to look at Enjolras before, but now he did. “What?”

“I hurt people,” Enjolras said, becoming reserved and quiet again before Joly’s eyes as he turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “I might have another episode tonight, and if I do I can’t hurt people again.”

“We only have to figure out why it happened,” Joly said, every muscle in his body tensening with - he didn’t know what. He felt as confused and unsteady as though he were on a ship in the middle of a storm with nothing to cling to, swaying and close to toppling into the darkness of the sea. 

“Just for the rest of the night then,” Enjolras said, raising his voice now more than he ever had with Joly. Joly set his jaw and squared his shoulders, trying to instill in himself some meager confidence to convince himself that he was right. 

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is!” Enjolras’ voice was louder now, at least for him, and it was edged with something cold and hard as he began to rise from his bed. Even his most wretched state, he was more assured and steady than Joly could ever be. “Do it, or I’ll ask someone else to.”

Joly stared at him, his eyes beginning to sting. “Please,” was all he could manage to say. He didn’t want to admit out loud how much he’d failed Enjolras, how much he’d set him back instead of helping him move forward. 

Enjolras returned his stare, his mouth set in a firm and unwavering line. “Do it,” he said, his voice returned to its normal quiet volume. He held his hands out, palms upward. 

So Joly gave in. 

As he wrapped the restraints around Enjolras’ bony wrists, Joly felt something inside him harden with determination as he swallowed down the last of the tears he’d almost shed in front of Enjolras. Nothing mattered. Not Dr. Dupard and his demands for Enjolras’ reports, not his almost daily interviews with Enjolras. Not his job, if it came down to it. Nothing that stood in his way from finding out every detail of what had happened on this night.

* * *

Finished with redressing Enjolras’ loosened bandages, Joly left his bedside without a word. For the first time in weeks Enjolras had returned to the stony silence with which he had greeted Joly in the early days of their acquaintance. As Joly had applied liniments to Enjolras scratched and bruised knuckles, he’d pleaded internally for Enjolras to say something or even look at him, give him some sort of sign to help him understand. The sign never came, and Joly had let himself walk away, though it felt like every step he took away from Enjolras was a blatant betrayal of the promises he had made him. 

Joly walked with an air of grim purpose to the nurses’ station and caught sight of Sister Simplice showing a young volunteer the calendar for patient procedures. “Sister Simplice,” he said, keeping his voice only loud enough for her to just hear him. She turned quickly to him, her face an unreadable mask, void of the usual pleasant smile she reserved for him. She said something quietly to the volunteer and sent her off before addressing Joly. 

“Yes, Joly? Do you need something from me?” Sister Simplice brushed off some invisible crumbs from her habit in the most casual manner, and nothing would have made Joly believe that she wasn’t completely composed, cool, and poised, if it were not for the way she quickly thrust her pale hands in her skirt pockets to hide their shaking. 

“Sister, please,” Joly said, meeting her eyes. “Can we talk somewhere in private?”

Sister Simplice hesitated, and looked over her shoulder before she nodded. “Yes, we had better. Come, in here.” She gestured towards the small office of one of the doctors, which was for the moment unoccupied. Joly followed her, shutting the door behind him. 

“You were here tonight,” he began slowly. “You are the one who called me to tell me to come. What happened, Sister? Tell me every detail, from the moment you first saw Enjolras today.”

“Joly -”

“Something triggered him,” Joly said, his voice rising and growing higher in pitch with desperation. “This hasn’t happened in months. I promised I would help him, and I -” He inhaled sharply and stared at the floor, trying to stop his voice from breaking. “It’s me, isn’t it? All of the accounts I made him tell, reliving everything in such detail night after night -”

“It wasn’t that, Joly,” Sister Simplice interjected quickly, looking surprised with herself and as though she regretted it the next moment. Joly jerked his head up. 

“So you _do_ know _,_ don’t you?” Joly asked. He let out a short laugh of relief. “Alright then, what was it? Was it something in the room, a sound, a sight, a smell?”

Sister Simplice didn’t respond. 

“A person? One of the other patients looked familiar, perhaps?” Joly continued, a little unsurely now. “Can you remember?”

“Joly,” Sister Simplice said again, her voice quiet and grave. “You must be careful of what information you give to Dr. Dupard.”

Joly waited. Stared. Stared some more. Finally, he said, “What are you talking about?”

Sister Simplice fixed him with the most magnifying gaze he couldn’t seem to break away from, and moved closer so she could speak even more quietly. “Should he ask what triggered Enjolras tonight, say it was the sound of the generator, that he was having a particularly bad night.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No.”

“Then why - what’s going on? Why are you asking me to lie about a patient?” 

Sister Simplice was preparing to leave now, glancing out the window of the office every few seconds and shuffling closer and closer to the door. “I cannot stay, Joly,” she whispered urgently. “We cannot speak of this here, now. But do not trust Dr. Dupard, not for the present. He does not have Enjolras’ health and well-being in mind when he asks you for those weekly reports.” She opened her mouth as if planning to say more, but seemingly decided against it and slipped out of the room before Joly could fully comprehend what had just transpired. 

Joly gaped at the empty room, not sure what to do next. A moment later the doctor whose office he was standing unsolicited in appeared at the doorway, sandwich in hand and a look of confusion and irritation appearing on his face when he saw Joly. Joly quickly made an excuse and hurried out of the office, his feet moving but his brain coming to a halt. 

He was walking, walking down the hall, and it was too late for him to turn around and feign indifference when he caught Dr. Dupard's eye. Joly continued walking briskly, praying that the doctor would be content and decide not to stop him.

“Joly,” Dr. Dupard greeted him mildly, forcing Joly to stop and acknowledge him. “I see you calmed the patient down successfully. I am sorry you had to be called in at such a late hour. Now that the patient’s calm, you should go home. Get your rest.” Dr. Dupard smiled, his eyes boring into Joly’s in the most affable way. Any other night Joly would have accepted - he was running on so little sleep these days as it was. But after hearing what Sister Simplice had had to say just minutes before, Joly knew sleep would not be an option. 

Joly swallowed, trying to collect himself and calm his racing heartbeat as he replied in the most level voice he could muster, “No, thank you. I think I’d better keep watch over him for the rest of the night.”

Dr. Dupard’s smile remained, and Joly couldn’t tell if it was simply his paranoia telling him there was something vaguely off about his expression. “Of course, Joly. You’ve always been so attentive to your patients. It shows in you the makings of a great doctor.”

Joly nodded, his cheeks aching with his painful smile as he watched Dr. Dupard go. The moment he was out of sight, he walked as quickly as he could without running until he was in front of Enjolras’ bed once more.

“Enjolras,” Joly said, a little out of breath. “I’m sorry. We should do whatever it takes for you to feel safe in every way, even if that means - restraining you. But I want to help you.”

He got no response. Enjolras still had his back to him. Joly tried again, trying to hide the impatience in his voice. “Enjolras.” Still no response. “ _Enjolras.”_ Joly walked around to the other side of the bed and nearly fell back in surprise. “Oh, _hang_ it, Enjolras, I’m sorry -” 

Enjolras was slumped on his side and unconscious, half of his upper body hanging off of the bed. His face was flushed and his breathing came heavy. A heavy weight settled in Joly’s stomach as he thought that the infection he’d been fighting off for so long must have finally entered Enjolras’ system. With how occupied with his worry earlier, he must have missed the signs after Enjolras’ episode. _How did this happen so fast?_ He thought, trying to contain his panic.

“It’ll be alright, Enjolras,” Joly whispered as he repositioned him in bed, gesturing for one of the nurses nearby to help him. “I’m going to stay with you to make sure of it.” Joly received no more than the tiniest flicker of Enjolras’ eyelids as a response, and as he began to recheck all of the wounds he’d so carefully tended to before, his hands shook with the thought that he had been neglectful somehow. He had let Enjolras down. 

He brushed a hand over Enjolras forehead, sweeping his hair, which was damp with sweat, out of the way so a nurse could place a cool cloth over his forehead. “I’ll be here,” he repeated quietly, and got to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like i owe it to the people who followed and supported this story to say that it's unlikely i'll be continuing it in the future. being in the fandom was a great experience, but i've moved on from it and don't think i could do this potential story or its characters justice if i tried to keep writing it. 
> 
> i might one day post one last chapter containing my outline for how the rest (or most of) the fic was going to play out, just as closure for me and anyone else who might have been invested in the outcome. thanks so so much again to everyone who's kudos'd or commented or just been there for the ride!! when i started this i didn't think anyone but me would be interested in this, so reading your comments made me smile :)


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